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POEMS 



BY 



JAMES CLAPiENCE'^IANGAN; 



BIOGRAPHICAL INTRODUCTION 



JOIIX MITCHEL. 



:! NEW YORK: 

j P. M. HAVERTY, 112 FULTON- STREET. 

' 1859. 



N 0^ I. 



"b 



<^ 



4'^ 

A? 



Entered according to Act of Congress, in the year 1859, 
Hy I". M. IIAVKRTY, 
111 ilie Clerk's Office of the District Court of the United States for the 
Southern District of New Yoik. 



REN'NIK, SHEA & LIXDSAY, 
Stekeotypkks and Electrotyhki 
81, !r3.t!%'> ("K^Tlu•:-.STUEET, 
NEW YORK. 



co]srTE]srTS 



PAGE 

James Mang an : his Life, Poetry, and Death 7 

(^txmixn giutljolofiiT. 

FRIEDRICII SCIIILLKR. 

The [.ay of the JJell 33 

The Messa^'e to the Iron Foundiy 48 

The DiN er. 57 

I'olyoriitf.s and his Ring 6S 

The 1 1.. St age .■.:::.■..::::::: 66 

Tlie Maiden's Plaint 72 

The l.ainent of (Jeies 73 

'J 1j.' Linealities 77 

To u;y Friends '. 81 

The Maid of Orleans 83 

'I'lie Secret ' 83 

The Words of Reality '.'.".V..V.V.V. '.'.'. '.'.'.'.'.'.'.■.■. '. '. '. '. '. 85 

The Words of Delusion 86 

The ( 'oin se of Time ......[........]] 87 

Breadih and Depth .........!.. 88 

Lif^ht aiid Warmth \[\\ , 89 

Theehi : a \'oice from the World of Spirits 90 

Hope gi 

LUDWIG UHL.VND. 

The Golden Apple 92 

The Love adieu 93 

Ichabod ! tlie glory has departed 93 

Spirits Kverywhere 94 

Spring Roses 95 

The Jeweller's Daughter 97 

The ('astle over the Sea 100 

Durand of IJlonden 102 

Forward ! I03 

LUDWIG TIKK. 

Life is the desert and the solitude 105 

Autumn Song ] 107 

Pleasure 108 

Light and Shade 109 

JUSTINUS KERXER. 

The Four Idiot Brothers HI 

The Faithful Steed 113 

The Garden that fades not .. 114 

The Midnight Bell ! . . 1 16 

The Wanderer's Chant II7 

The Poet's Consolation 118 

Homesickness 119 

To the (ihostseeress of Prevorst, as .she lay on her death-bed VM 

To the (Jhost-seeiess of Prevorst, after her decease 121 

The Lover's Farewell 122 

To Ludwig Uhiand, on the last volume of his Poems 123 

Not at Home 121 

GOTTFRIED AUGUSTUS BUERGER. 

Leonore : a Ballad 125 

The Abduction of the Lady Gertrude von Hochburg 134 

1'lie Demon- Vager IJo 

Wope 153 



4 CONTENTS. 

KARL SIMROCK. PAGE 

O Maria, Regina Misericoidiae ! 155 

EDUARD MOERIKE. 

My Ri ver 158 

JOHANN ELIAS SCHLEGEL. 

Love-ditty 160 

EMANUEL GEIBLER. 

Cliarleniague and the Bridge of Moonbeams IGl 

JOIIANxV PAUL RICHTER. 

The New-Year's Night of a Miserable Man 1G3 

ANONYMOUS. 

Where are they ? 165 

KARL THEODORE KOERNER. 

The Minstrel's Motherland 167 

Sword Song 169 . 

OTTO RUNGE. 

Holiness to the Lord 174 

S. A. MAHLMANN. 

The Grave, the Grave 175 

JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 

The Lay of the Captive Count 177 

Hassan Aga 180 

The Minstrel 184 

Mignon's Song 186 

The Violet 187 

The Treasure seeker 188 

The Rose 190 

The Fisherman 191 

The King of Thiile 192 

A Voice from tiie Invisible World 193 

The Alder- King 194 

A Song from the l/optie 197 

Another iJoptic Song 198 

Au Irish Lamentation 198 

FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOl'STOCK. 

To Ebert 200 

To Giseke, on his departure from College i;04 

Early Graves 206 

JOHANN GOTTFRIED VON HERDER. 

The Fair and Faithless One of Grailov 207 

The Brother and the Sister 212 

The Erl King's Daughter 215 

CHRISTOPH AUGUST TIEDGE. 

Forget Me Not 218 

The Field of Kunnersdorf 224 

LUDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HOELTY. 

The Aged Landman's Advice to his Son 228 

Song exciting to Gladness 231 

The (irave-digger's Chant 232 

Strew the Way with Flowers 2;i3 

FRIEDRICH RUECKERT. 

The Ride round the Parapet 234 

Tlu- 1 ) V iiig Flower 242 

Naiuie more tliun Science 245 

(iiMie in tlie Wind 246 

And then no More 2JS 

The Cathedral of Cologne 249 



CONTENTS. 



AUGUST SCHNEZLER. PAGE 

The Deserted Mill 251 

The Lily-Maidens 253 

WILHELM MUELLER. 

The Sunken Cit v 255 

The Bride of the Dead 256 

Noon-day Dreaming 257 

FRIEDRICH BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. 

Vale and Highway 258 

Alexander the Great and the Tree 259 

A Sigh 262 

FERDINAND FREILIGRATH. 

The Spectre Caravan 263 

The Lion's Ride 266 

Iceland-Moss Tea 269 

The Sheik <>( .Mmint Sinai 272 

The King ut I'oiigo and his Hundred Wives 275 

To a Skating Xt-gio 277 

The A lexandriue Metre 279 

Grabhe 280 

M V Themes 2Si 

The White Ladv i 287 

Freedom and Right 290 

FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON. 

An Evening Landscape 293 

Love's Reminiscences 294 

To the Beloved One 295 

JOHANN GAUDENZ BARON VON SALIS-SEEWIS. 

Cheerfulness 296 

The Grave 299 

AUGUST ADOLF LUDWIG FOLLEN. 

Freedom 300 

FRIEDRICH LEOPOLD COUNT STOLBERG. 

To a Mountain Cataract 301 

The Grave 303 

ERNST MORITZ ARNDT. 

The German Fatherland 304 

AUGUST VON KOTZEBUE. 

Be Merry and Wise '. 306 

KARL EGON EBERT. 

The Revenge of Duke Swerting 308 

,KARL IMMERMANN. 

The Stndent of Prague 311 

ALOYS SCHREIBER. 

A Drinking Song 316 

FERDINAND GOTTFRIED MAX VON SCHENKENDORF. 

Andreas Hofer 317 

JULIUS MOSRN. 

The Death of Hofer 319 

AUGUST LAMKY. 

Fuimus 321 

FRIEDRICH AUGUST VON HEYDEN. 

The Last Words of Al-Hassan 322 

JOHANN WILHELM LUDWIG GLEIM. 

The Little Hut , 325 



CONTENTS. 



JOHANN MARTIN MILLER. PAGE 
The Sentimental Gardener 326 

AUGUST KUHN. 

The Bereaved One 328 

CONRAD WETZEL. 

Song 331 

O, my Heart ! 332 

Good Night 333 

COUNT EICHENDORF. 

The Miller's Daughter 334 

GEORG HERWEGH. 

The Song of Hatred 335 

BARON VON ZEDLITZ. 

The Midnight Review 337 



Irislj g^ntljologg. 



Dark Rosaleen 341 

Shane Bwee ; or, The Captivity of the Gaels 344 

A Lamentation for the Death of Sir Maurice Fitzgerald, Knight of Kerry 347 

Sai stield 349 

Lament over the Ruins of the Abbey of Teach Molaga 3.53 

The Dawning of the Day 357 

The Dream of .John Mac-Donnell 359 

The Sorrows of Innislail 362 

The Testament of (^athaeir .Mor 364 

Rury and Darvorgilla 371 

The Expedition and Death of King Dathy 376 

Pi ince Aldfrids Itinerary through Ireland 379 

Kinkora 382 

Lament for the I'rinces of Tyrone and Tyrconnell 384 

O'Hussey's Ode to the Maguire 393 

Kathuleen Xy-llonlahan 397 

Welcome to the Prince 398 

Lament for Banba 401 

Ellen liawn 403 

1 ,ove Ballad 404 

'I'lie A'i.sion of Conor O'Snllivan 407 

Patrick (./'onrtoiTs Vision 408 

Si-rhile Ni Gaia ?... 410 

SI. Patricks ilynin before Tarah 413 



gpotrirpI^iT, 



ilie Karamanian Exile 418 

i he Wail an<i Warning of the Three Khalendeers 421 

The Time of the Barmecides 425 

The Mariner's Bride 427 

To the Ingleezee Khatir, calling himself Djaun Bool Djcnkinzun 428 



iglistcllnncous. 



Sonl and Count ry 430 

Siberia 432 

A Vision of (.'onnanghl in the Thirteenth Century 433 

An Invitation 436 

The Warning Voice 437 

'J'he L()\ ei\ Land 441 

Tho Sm w Mill 443 

Ct^an Siilla 445 

Irish .National Hvmn 446 

Bn.ken-hearted Lays 448 

The ( )ne .My.stery 450 

The .Vameless One 452 

Tin- 1)> ing EnthusiSist 454 

To Joseph Hreiian 456 

Twenty Goldeti Years Ago 458 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 



iT is a daring adventure, perhaps, in this more than An- 
gustan age of poesy, an age wliicli has produced, it seems, 
upwards ofqiie liundred bards in our language alone (see 
Poets oftJieNineteentk Century by the Rev. Robert Aris Willinot and 
Evert A. l)uyckinck),to demand the attention of the literary world 
to another poet of the aforesaid nineteenth century : a poet, too, 
whose writings have been all published, and whose life has been 
ended more than ten years ago ; so that if there was any thing in 
his work truly excellent, and worthy so enlightened an age, it is 
presumable that it would have been found ont ere now. 

In that collection of the poetic gems of our time and tongue by 
Messrs. Willmot and Duyckinck, with its one or two hundred im- 
mortal names, the name of Clarence Mangan has no place. Mr. 
Dana, in his highly meritorious, though not altogether blameless, 
HousekoU Book of Poetry^ displaying specimens and master-pieces 
of three or four hundred " poets" in our tongue, has, indeed, 
found room for tivo of Mangan's translations from the German — 
and those by no means amongst the best. A natural inquiry will 
suggest itself to many readers, — Who, then, is this new old poet? 
Mackay we know, and Alexander Smith we know, but \vho art 
Thou? If he was indeed a true poet, would not the critical acu- 
men of our literary age have discovered him ; if he has lain so long 
in oblivion, let him lie : we have poets enough and to spare. 

Not by any means desiring to obtrude an obscure parvenu. 
amongst that crowd of immortals, nor intending to pluck one leaf 
of ivy from the brow of a Mackay or a Smith, or a laurel from the 
chaplct of the bard who sings " Riflcmc)]. Form !"— not designing 



8 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN : 

to dispute about tastes, or to importune a cultivated public which 
has its hands and head already too full, and labours only under 
an embarras de ridiesses^ — I have yet undertaken, at the desire of 
a bold publisher, to introduce the almost unknown name and 
writings of James Clarence Mungan modestly and bashfully to 
American readers. And I am the more emboldened to this en- 
terprise, in calling to mind with what eager admiration the few 
samples of his strange melodies which have found their way to 
the innumerable readers of this continent, were welcomed and 
rejoiced over. The comparative unacquaintance, also, of Ameri- 
cans with these poems may be readily accounted for, when we 
remember how completely British criticism gives the law through- 
out the literary domain of that semi-barbarous tongue in which I 
have now the honour to indite. For this Mangan was not only 
an Irishman, — not only an Irish papist, — not only an Irish papist 
rebel; — but throughout his whole literary life of twenty years, he 
never deigned to attorn to English criticism, never published a 
-line in any English periodical, or through any English bookseller, 
never seemed to be aware that there was a British public to please. 
He was a rebel politically, and a rebel intellectually and spirit- 
uallj', — a rebel with his whole heart and soul against the whole 
British spirit of the age. The consequence was sure, and not 
unexpected. Hardly anybody in England knew the name of 
such a person ; and the only critique of his volumes called "Ger- 
man Anthology" which I have ever met with, is a very short and 
contemptuous notice in the Foreign Quarterly^ for October, 1845, 
wherein the austere critic declares Mr. Mangaii's method of ren- 
dering the German to be, " not gilding refined gold, but plating 
it with copper ; not painting the lily white, but plastering it with 
red ochre." 

Whereupon issue is joined. I respectfully appeal from English 
taste to American. In the eyes of Americans, that can hardly be 
a great crime (though to an Englishman it is the sin sigaiust tiie 
Holy Ghost) — to ignore British opinion, and despise equally Brit- 
ish censure and applause. Moreover I believ'e there is in these 
United States quite enough of the Celtic blood and warmth of 
temperament, enough too of the true Gaelic ear for melody, 
to recognize in the poems of Mangan that marvellous charm 
which makes him the household and heart-enshrined darling of 
many an Irish home. I have never yet met a cultivated Irish 
man or woman, of genuine Irish nature, who did not prize Clar- 
ence Mangan above all the poets that their island of song ever 
nursed. This one fact, singular as it must needs appear to the 
Duyokincks, makes it worth while surely to understand with what 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 9 

wand of power, and what musical incantations he wronglit so 
wondrous a magic. 

I liave undertaken also to give some account of his life; or 
rather Ids two lives : for never was a creature on this earth whose 
existence was so entirely dual and double ; nay, whose two lives 
were so hopelessly and eternally at war, racking and desolating 
the poor mortal frame which was the battle-ground of that fearful 
strife. Yet I ask myself, What would Mangan think and feel 
now, if he could know that a man was going to write his life ? 
Would he not rise up from his low grave in Glasnevin to forbid ? 
Be still, poor ghost ! Gently and reverently, and with shoes from 
otf my feet, I will tread that sacred ground. 

And first, of the mere material and visible life. Mangan was 
not born in the aristocratic rank. Moore's father was a grocer iu 
Aungier-street ; Beranger was brought forth in the shed of his 
grandfather, a tailor. Of Siangan's parentage little more is known 
than that liis father was one James Mangan, a native of Shana- 
golden, in Limerick county ; who in 1801 was married to Catharine 
Smith, of Fishamble-street, Dublin. In the same street, and in 
1803, James Clarence Mangan was born, his fatlier being then a 
shopkeeper of the grocer species, and unfortunate in his busi- 
ness. In the short sketch of Mangan's life prefixed to Mr. 
O'Daly's publication, called "The Poets and Poetry of Munster," 
it is said, touching tliis unprosperous grocer parent, " that being 
of a restless disposition he removed to another locality, having 
consigned the establisliment and his son to the care of his brother- 
in-law, whom he induced to come from London for that purpose." 
Those who knew Clarence Mangan in later days had a vague sort 
of knowledge that he had a brother, a sister, and a mother still 
living; some of whom survived him, and that their scanty sus- 
tenance depended, at least partly, upon him. In the older part of 
Dublin, between the castle and the river Liflfey, runs otf from 
Werburgh-street a narrow alley which brings you into a small 
square of dismal brick houses, called "Derby-square." Very few 
of the wealthier and more fashionable inhabitants of Dublin know 
the existence of this dreary quadrangle. Tlie houses are high 
and dingy : many of the windows are patched with paper ; 
clothes-lines extend across from window to window, and on the 
whole the place has an air of liaving seen better days — better, but 
never very good. In this Derby-square, it appears, was a boys' 
school ; and here Clarence Mangan received what scholastic train- 
ing lie ever had. Then, for seven years, he laboured as a copy- 
ist in a scrivener's office at a weekly saUvry ; a meclianical employ- 
ment which had at least one advantao^e for him, — that his mind 



10 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN : 

could wander. Eye and finger once set steadily to their task, 
the soul might spread her wings and soar beyond all the spheres — 

Then Fancy bore him to the palest star, 
Pinnacled in the lofty aether dim. 

After that, for two or three years he gained his living and main- 
tained his wretched household as an attorney's clerk. The name 
of tliat particular member of the Society of the King's Inns who 
doled out a few shillings a week to so remarkable a clerk, is not 
known to fame ; and my researches upon this important point 
will be forever in vain. 

At what age he devoted himself to this drudgery, at what age 
he left it, or was discharged from it, does not appear : for his 
whole biography documents are wanting, tlie man having never 
for one moment imagined that his poor life could interest any 
surviving human being, and having never, accordingly, collected 
his biographical assets, and appointed a literary executor to take 
care of his poisthumous fame. Neitlier did he ever acquire the 
habit, common enuugh among literary men, of dwelling upon his 
own early trials, struggles, and triumphs. But those who knew 
liim in after years can remember witli what a shuddering and 
loathing horror he spoke, when at rare intervals he could be in- 
duced to speak at all, of his labours with the scrivener and the 
attorney. He was shy and sensitive, with exquisite sensibility 
and fine impulses; eye, ear, and soul open to all the beauty, 
music, and glory of heaven and earth ; humble, gentle, and unex- 
acting; modestly craving nothing in the world but delestial glori- 
fied life, seraphic love, and a throne among the immortal gods 
(that's all), — and he was eight or ten years scribbling deeds, plead- 
ings, and bills in chancery. Know all men by these presents, that 
it was " a very vile life," if indeed his true life were spent there 
and so ; but there was another, an inner and a higher life for 
him : and in those years of quill driving, amongst gross and ill- 
conditioned fellow-clerks, whose naughty ways long after made 
him tremble to think of, that subtle spirit wandered and dwelt 
afar. At this time he must have been a great devourer of books, 
and seems to have early devoted himself to the exploration of 
those treasures which lay locked up in foreign languages. Man- 
gan had no education of a regular and approved sort ; neither, in 
his multifarious reading had he, nor could brook any guidance 
whatever. Yet the reader of liis poems will probably find in 
them ample proof of culture both high and wide, both profound 
and curiously exquisite. How he came by these acquirements; 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 11 

by what devoted and passionate study, deep in the night, like the 
wrestle of Jacob with a god, this poor attorney's clerk brought 
down the imuiortals to commune with him, is not recorded. He 
has not made provision, as was remarked before, for satisfying 
the laudable curiosity of the public on these points. 

Indeed, for some years after his labours had ceased in the at- 
torney's office, there is a gap in liis life wliich pains-taking biog- 
raphy will never fill up. It is a vacuum and obscure gulf which 
no eye hath fathomed or measured ; into which he entered a 
briglit- haired youth and emerged a withered and stricken man. 
Mangan, when the present writer saw him first, was a spare and 
meagre figure, somewhat under middle height, with a finely- 
formed head, clear blue eyes, and features of peculiar delicacy. 
His face was pallid and worn, and the light hair seemed not so 
much grizzled as i^ac/f^t/. From several obscure indications in 
Lis poems, it is plain that in one at least of the great branches of 
education he iiad run througli his curriculum ragwhirly -^ he had 
loved, and was deceived. Tlie instructress in this department of 
knowledge was a certain fair and false " Frances ;" at least, such 
is the name under which he addressed to her one of his dreariest 
songs of sorrow. In that obscure, unrecorded interval of his life, 
he seems to have some time or other, by a rare accident, penetrated 
(like Diogenes Teufelsdrochk) into a sphere of life higher and 
more refined than any which his poor lot had before revealed to 
liim ; and even to have dwelt therein for certain days. Dubiously 
and with difficulty, 1 collect from tliose who were his intimates 
many years, thus much. He was on terms of visiting in a house 
where were three sisters ; one of them beautiful, spirituelle^ and 
a coquette. The old story was here once more re-enacted in due 
order. Paradise opened before him : tlie imaginative and pas- 
sionate soul of a devoted boy bended in homage before an en- 
chantress. She received it, was pleased with it, even encouraged 
and stimulated it, by various arts known to that class of persons, 
until she was fully and proudly conscious of her absolute power 
over one other noble and gifted nature — until she knew that she 
was the centre of the whole orbit of his being, and the light of 
his life : — then with a cold surprise, as wondering that he could be 
guilty of such a foolish presumption, she exercised her undoubted 
prerogative and whistled him down the wind. His air-paradise 
was suddenly a darkness and a chaos. 

Well, it was a needful part of his education : if his Frances had 
not done him this service, some other as fair and cruel most un- 
doubtedly w^ould. She was but the accidental instrument and 
occasion of giving him that one fundamental lesson of a poet's 



12 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 

life, line grande passion. As a beautiful dream she entered into 
his existence once for all : as a tone of celestial music she pitched 
the key-note of his song: and, sweeping over all the chords of 
his melodious desolation you may see that white hand. Let us 
bid her farewell, then, not altogether in unkindness ; for she was 
more than half the Mangan. 

He never loved, and hardly looked upon, any woman forever 
more. Neither over his disappointment did he gnash his teeth 
and beat his breast before the public ; nor make himself and his 
sorrows the burden of his song. Only in the selection of poems 
for translation, and in the wonderful pathos of the thought which 
he scrupled not sometimes to interpolate, can you discern the 
master misery : — as in that bahad from Kueckert — 

"I saw her once, one little while, and then no more, 
'Twas Paradise on earth awhile, and then no more ; 
Ah ! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore ? 
She shone before my eyes awhile, and then no more. 
The shallop of my peace is wrecked on Beauty's shore. 
Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more ! 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more. 
Earth looked like Heaven a little while, and then no more. 
Her presence thrilled and lighted to its inner core 
My desert breast a little while, and then no more." 

Into the empty and dreary interval which followed there are but few 
glimpses of light; unless the hinted revelations in that ghastly 
poem, " The Nameless One," be regarded as autobiographic. 
One thing is plain : he could not afford leisure to brood over the 
shivered splinters of his great dreams, by reason of the necessity 
of earning daily bread for himself and his mother and sister : 
which was also probably what saved him from suicide. Men do 
not usually rush to meet death, when death, by mere hunger, 
stands like a wolf at the door. It is well also, if the devil find 
one forever occupied ; which was the receipt found effectual by 
that learned Count Caylus, who kept diligently engraving, to il- 
lustrate his own works, a glass always stuck in his eye, and a 
burin in his hand, his nuixim and rule of life being " Je grave 
pour nepas mependrey Certain it is the man became miserable 
enough. At home he had no pleasure ; nothing but reproaches 
and ill-humour. He contracted a "friendship" with 1 know not 
whom ; and the friend betrayed him at his need. Baffled, beaten, 
mocked, and all alone amidst the wrecks of his world — is it won- 
derful that he sought at times to escape from consciousness by 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 13 

tuking for bread opium, and for water brandy ? Many a sore and 
pitiable struggle lie must have maintained against the foul liend, 
but with a character and a will essentially feeble, he succumbed 
at last. 

About 1S30 — he being then twenty-seven years of age — we find 
him contributing short poems, usually translations from the Ger- 
man or the Irish, to a small weekly illustrated periodical in Dub- 
lin. His compensation was small, and in penury and wretched- 
ness of body and soul, he dragged along his life : sometimes too 
truly— 

" In days of darkness, 

And shapes and signs of the final wrath, 
When Death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, 
Stood on his path." 

Amongst the literary people of that provincial metropolis of 
Dublin (so I must call it, though I may gnash my teeth, if that be 
any comfort) were two or three who not only understood and ap- 
preciated Clarence Mangan, but would have served and saved 
him, if he had permitted. Of these 1 may name Dr. Anster, one 
of the innumerable translators of '■'■Faust;'''' Petrie, well known 
both as an exquisite artist, and also for his great work on the 
Ecclesiastical Antiquities of Ireland ; Dr. Todd, Fellow of Trinity 
College, and Librarian of the magnificent Library of that Univer- 
sity. By their aid and influence the solitary, half-conscious 
dreamer and opium-eater obtained employment in the great Uni- 
versity Library, on the preparation of a new and improved cata- 
logue of that vast repository ; for which his varied and polyglot 
studies eminently qualified him. 

The first time the present biographer saAv Clarence Mangan, it 
was in this wise — Being in the college library, and having occa- 
sion for a book in that gloomy apartment of the institution called 
the " Fagel Library," which is the innermost recess of the stately 
building, an acqiuiintance pointed out to me a man perched on 
the top of a ladder, with the whispered information that the figure 
was Clarence Mangan. It Avas an unearthly and ghostly figure, in 
a brown garment; the same garment (to all appearance) which 
lasted till the day of his death. The blanched hair was totally 
unkempt; the corpse-like features still as marble; a large book 
was in liis arms, and all his soul was in the book. I had never 
heard of Clarence Mangan before, and knew not for what he was 
celebrated; whether as a magician, a poet, or a murderer; yet 
took a volume and spread it on a table, not to read, but with pre- 
tence of reading to gaze on the spectral creature upon the ladder. 

2 



14 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 

Here Mangaii laboured mechanically, and dreamed, roosting 
on a ladder, for certain months, perhaps years; carrying the 
proceeds in money to his mother's poor home, storing in liis 
memory the proceeds which were not in money, hut in another 
kind of ore, which might feed the imagination indeed, but was 
not available for board and lodging. All this time he was the 
bond-slave of opium. 

And now it ahiiost repents me that I undertook to narrate the 
events of this man's outer and visible life, even to gratify the 
natural interest which his loving, worshipping readers cannot but 
feel in all that concerns him— an interest, however, which is 
deeper and higher than mere curiosity. No purer and more be- 
nignant spirit ever alighted upon earth— no more abandoned 
wreich ever found earth a purgatory and a hell. There were, as 
I have said, two Mangans: one well known to the Muses, the 
other to the police ; one soared through the empyrean and sought 
the stars — the other lay too often in gutters of Peter- street and 
Bride-street. I have read the lives and sufferings of Edgar Poe 
and of Richard Savage. Neitlier was so consummate a poet, 
neither so miserable a mortal. Yet in one respect poor Mangan 
compares favorably with them both ; he had no malignity, sought 
no revenge, never wrought sorrow and suffering to any human 
being but himself. In his deadly struggle with tlie cold world he 
wore no defiant air and attitude ; was always humble, affectionate, 
almost prayerful. He was never of the "Satanic school," never 
devoted mankind to the infernal gods, nor cursed the sun ; but 
the cry of his spirit was ever, Miserable man that I am, who will 
deliver me from the wrath to come ! 

To proceed with tlie few and meagre records of his remaining 
days. It was the time of "Penny Journals." There were the 
Loudon and the Dublin Penny Jovnial, and the Irish Penny Jour- 
nal. To the two latter Mangan made frequent contributions ; but 
he never sent a line of his verses for publication in any London 
periodical; perhaps through diffidence; not feeling confident 
that any production of his could satisfy the critical taste of the 
step-sister island. Afterwards he became a regular contributor 
to the Buhlin University Magazine; in wliose pages appeared the 
most and best of his beautiful translations ; and other pieces pur- 
porting to be translations, from the German, Irish, Persian, Span- 
ish, "Coptic," and so forth. 

In -1842 commenced the Nation, weekly newspaper ; and as na- 
tional poems, especially ballads, were to be a regular feature of 
that publication, and no man in Ireland knew all moods of the 

Irish harp save Mangan, a large number of his finest compositions 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 15 

for five years appeared in the columns of the Nation. It was in 
the office of that journal liis present biographer made his ac- 
quaintance ; a feat not easily accomplished ; for Mangan had a 
morbid reluctance to meet new people, or to be "introduced." 
The thing loas accomplished, however, and when, in the end of 
the year 1847, I thought proper to break off my connection with 
the Nation^ Mangan, and also ileilly, attached themselves to me, 
and followed my fortunes, or to speak more accurately, misfor- 
tunes. Clarence Mangan never wrote another line for the Nation^ 
nor during the short career of the United Irulonan^ for any other 
publication than this. 

In the continual movements of political associations, whether 
under O'Conuell, or under the auspices of those immortal young- 
sters called the Young Ireland Party, Siangan never took any 
ostensible part; yet when he, in common with most other men, 
believed that a mortal struggle was approaching, and already im- 
minent, he became vehemently excited. Whatever relic of manly 
vigor and force of character was still left living amidst the wrecks 
and ruins of the man seemed to flame up; for his history and fate 
were indeed a type and shadow of the land he loved so well. 
The very soul of his melody is that plaintive and passionate 
yearning which breathes and throbs through all the music of Ire- 
land. Like Ireland's, his gaze was ever backward, with vain and 
feeble complaint for vanished years. Like Ireland's, his light 
flickered upward for a moment, and went out in the blackness of 
darkness. It was 1848, one of the dreadful years of the Famine 
in Ireland ; and it began to be stated distinctly by the ministerial 
journals of London that the newspaper named United Irishman^ 
an avowed organ of insurrection, would shortly be crushed by a 
determined prosecution. Mangan thereupon wrote the following 
letter. To reprint it here is distinctly egotistical ; and the excuse 
is that this letter was the only expression (in prose) of the writer's 
political sentiments which I have ever seen or heard of: — 

TO THE EDITOK OF THE " UNITED IRISHMAN." 

My dear M. — There is a rumor in circulation, that the govern- 
ment intend to commence a prosecution against you. Insignifi- 
cant an individual as I am, and unimportant to society as my 
political opinions may be, I, nevertheless, owe it, not merely to 
the kindness you have shown me, but to the cause of my country, 
to assure you that I thoroughly sympathize with your sentiments, 
that I identify my views of public affairs with yours, and that I 
am prepared to go all lengths with you and your intrepid friend, 
Devin Reilly, for the achievement of our national independence. 



16 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 

I mean to write you, in a few clays, a long letter, explanatory of 
the course wliich I think it becomes the duty of every Irish pa- 
triot to pursue, at the present eventful epoch. Meanwliile you 
are at liberty to make what use you please of this preliminary 
communication. Yours, in life and death, 

Jas. Clarence Mangan. 

Welcome as the letter was, and not a little touchinor as coming 
from him, the truth of history compels me to declare that it did 
not intimidate the Brit'ish government much. The "long letter 
explanatory" never came to hand ; unless, indeed, in the process 
of writing, it arranged itself in rhyme, arrayed itself in rich meta- 
phor and allegory, and made its appearance in the form of those 
noble lines entitled "Irish National Hymn," which the reader 
will find in the present volume. The desolate writer was by this 
time too much enfeebled in mind and body to think or act per- 
sistently in any matter whatever. But to the last he could sing. 

About this time he often visited the office of the United IrisJi- 
man^ in Trinity street; and if his present biographer chanced to 
be found alone, the visitor would sometimes remain in conversa- 
tion, or more properly in discourse of his own, for an hour; for 
though extremely silent, shy, and reserved habitually, yet with 
those in whom he confided, he was much given to strange and 
desultory talk, which seemed like the soliloquy of a somnambu- 
list. His blue eyes would then dilate, and light up strangely the 
sepulchral pallor of his face. His manner and voice were always 
extremely gentle ; and I never heard him blame anybody but 
himself. Neither did he speak much of his own utter misery and 
desolation ; but it was easy to perceive that his being was all 
drowned in the blackest despair; he had reached that dismal point 
of remediless misery, described so terribly by the grim Eoman 
satirist, when the soul can but say to itself, Imm, imvs jn-cecipHes ! 
He saw spirits, too, and received unwelcome visits from his dead 
father, wliom he did not love. Yet something saved hitn from 
insanity : perhaps it was religion. I am not aware that at this 
time he had any practical connection with his Church — he was a 
Catholic — but tliere was always present with him a devotional 
sentiment, and an humble and contrite heart. Before his death, 
too, he showed more profound interest in matters of faitli, by 
more frequently translating Catholic hymns and paraphrasing the 
Scriptures. By some tie or other he did assuredly hold on to liis 
anchorage upon the firm ground of reason, and did not drift into 
unknown seas. 

"Every man holds, chained up witliin him, a madman :" so it 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. l7 

is written; and nothing is more fearful than to watch in some 
men how perilously their maniac inmates tug at the chain, and to 
think, If a link should break now?— The life of such a being is 
the life of Homer's mariners rushing through a stormy sea at 
twelve knots, in the dead of night — 

AciSioTES ' tvtOov yalp ut' ik ^avdroio (pipovrai 

— inside, you have still a cabin-lamp burning, and air to breathe, 
and human companionship ; without, the infinite black waste of 
the roaring, ravening sea, and between, these, trembling and 
creaking, a half-inch plank: let the plank but start, and your 
lamp and life are extinguished in the foaming whirl. Poor Man- 
gan's lamp, though often sadly dimmed by thick vapours of sick- 
ness, and horror, and shame, yet burned still (somewhat blue), 
and lighted his pathway to the grave. 

And this was not far now. The last cause that could arouse 
in him any human interest or hope, was lost. He still haunted 
the newspaper offices ; for some money must be had, for bread, 
or indeed for whiskey ; the proportions of these two necessaries 
of life being much the same as Falstatf 's ; and in the month of 
June of that rueful year — let John Savage describe for us — 

" A crooked little street, called 'Trinity,' off one of the greatest 
thoroughfares of the city. The principal propellers of the excite- 
ment which moves the city and country have their being in this 
crooked little street, famous in Irish History, in the shape of the 
two journals, tlie '■IrlsJi Tribune,'' and ^ Ir is k Felon,'' both preaching 
the same creed, and rivals only in their devotiop to it. Out of 
either of these offices— they are side by side, like brothers in a 
fight — we perceive a strange-looking individual has glided, even 
as a shadow on a wall. 

" That shy, abstracted-looking man has held not the least power- 
erful talisman by which a nation is moved. We must look at him 
more minutely. He is about the middle size, and glides more 
than walks, yet at that is but infirm. He stoops and i^ abstracted. 
A threadbare dark coat — is it brown or black? — buttoned up to 
the throat, sheathes his attenuated body. His eye is lustrously 
mild and beautifully blue, and his silver-white locks surround, 
like a tender halo, the once beautiful, and now pale and intellec- 
tual face of the prematurely aged man before us. He glides along 
and through the people who are naturally attracted to this local- 
ity, as if he did not belong to the same earth with them. Nor 
does he. His steps seem as if they were not directed by any 
thought, but mechanically wended their way to his wretched 
abode." 



18 JAMES CLARENCE MANGANI 

And so lie glided and wended his way, longing for " the Angel 
Death ;" no one wish of his heart was ever fulfilled, no as^pi- 
ration satisfied ; — he passionately loved all sights and sounds of 
nature ; yet his hard fate held hiin chained in the dreariest haunts 
of a crowded city all his life : — he pined to sit under the shade of 
tropic trees or to sweep the great desert on a barb from Alexan- 
dria ; yet he never left Ireland ; never, perhaps, penetrated far- 
ther into the country than the hills of Wicklow. Aiid now jiis 
life was wasted and gone ; — the very powers of intellect and 
imagination wherein he could freely live and move "twenty 
golden years ago," now lying darkened and bound in the torpor 
produced by a horrible drug, — the soul that once could soar and 
dwell alone, now at last weighed down and hebetated by the 
miserable body to which it Avas chained, — what could be wished 
for him but freedom from that bond? Some friends he still had, 
who regarded him with a reverential compassion and wonder, and 
would have felt pride in giving him a siielter and a home. But 
sometimes he could not be found for weeks; and then he would 
reappear, like a ghost, or a ghoul, with a wildness in his blue, 
glittering eye, as of one who has seen spectres; and nothing 
gives so gliastly an idea of his condition of mind as the fact that 
the insane orgies of this rarely-gifted creature were transacted in 
the lowest and obscurest taverns, and in company with the offal of 
the human species. From this tliought one turns with a shudder. 

John O'Baly, a bookseller in Angelsea-street, was warmly at- 
tached to him. O'Daly is a fair Irish scholar ; and it is singular 
that Mangan, who has given the most exquisite metrical versions 
of Irish ballads, thoroughly instinct, too, with the Gaelic idioms 
and spirit, never himself could read a word of Irish. Either 
O'Daly, or else Eugene Curry, or John O'Donovan of the Eoyal 
Irish Academy, used to furnish him with literal prose translations. 

Dr. Anster and Mr. Petrie retained their generous friendship 
for him to the last; bat they could do nothing for him : he was 
out of tiie reach of help ; he would not dwell with men, or endure 
decent society ; they could but look on with pity and wonder. 

Another warm aduurer and attached friend was Joseph Brenan ; 
" his brother, and yet more than brother," to whom he addressed 
the touching verses wlncli are found in this collection. Brenan 
was one of the brightest and boldest of the young men whom 
that unhappy country, then in the vortex of her fate, swept along 
and carried down with her. His own destiny was a strange one ; 
he laboured for years allervvards in a strange land, and lies buried 
on the bank of Mississippi. 

At last, one morning in June, 1849, the news spread abroad 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 19 

amongst the literary persons of Dublin, that Clarence Mangan 
was dead : had died in a hospital, utterly destitute ; destitute but 
not deserted. He had suffered dreadfully from an attack of 
cholera, brouglit on, they say, by a lack of proper nourishment, 
and was nearly at the last stage when his friends found him. In 
the short biographical sketch prefixed to O'Daly's " Poets and 
Poetry of Munster," is this short memorandum. 

"A short time before his death, his constitution was greatly 
weakened by an attack of cholera. On his recovery (?) we found 
him in an obscure house in Bride-street, and, at his own request, 
procured admission for him to the Meath Hospital, on the 13th of 
June, 1849, where he lingered for seven days, and died on the 20th." 

During this interval he was assiduously waited on by a few 
friends; and Mr. Meehan, a good priest, — who had always appre- 
ciated him as a poet, loved him as a man, and yearned over him 
as a soul in the jaws of perdition, — anxiously and affectionately 
sought to console him in his last hours. The poor patient never 
repined, never blamed an unjust world, constantly thanked his 
friends for their attentions, and apologized earnestly for the 
trouble he was giving. At his own request, they read him, dur- 
ing his last moments of life, one of the Catholic penitential hymns, 
and so that gentle spirit passed. 

His remains lie in the cemetery of Glasnevin, a suburb on the 
northern confines of Dublin ; where there is not, so far as I have 
learned, a stone to mark his last abode. Assuredly he did not 
covet monuments, or a laurelled bust : craved but a resting-place 
in the bosom of his mother earth ; and could, if poet ever could, 
content himself with that kind of immortality of which the dying 
flower of llueckert so sweetly sang in death, or with the " Poet's 
Consolation" of Koerner — 

" What, though no maiden's tears ever be shed 
O'er my clay bed, 
Yet will the generous Night never refuse 
To weep its dews. 

And though no friendly hand garland the cross 

Above my moss. 
Still will the dear, dear Moon tenderly shine 

Down on that sign. 

And if the saunterer-by songlessly pass 

Through the long grass. 
There will the noontide bee pleasantly hum, 

And warui winds come. 



20 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 

Yes — you at least, ye dclLs, meadows, and streams, 
Stans and moon-beams, 

"Will think on him whose weak, meritless lays 
Teemed witli your praise." 



Such was the outward and visible existence of James Clarence 
Mangan. His inner and more living life aifords a more pleasing 
spectacle. Whether the beautiful and luxuriant world of dreams 
wherein he built his palaces, and laid up his treasure, and tasted 
the ambrosia of the gods, was indeed a sufficient 'compensation 
for all that squalid misery in the body, is a question on which 
there is no occasion to pronounce. One may hope that it was, 
and much more than a compensation ; for God is just. At any 
rate it was all the poor poet had. Some " poets" there are 
who desire to own a dream-world, and at the same time to own 
stock in banks and railroads. They do not give themselves up 
altogether to either order of things, but prudently invest in both 
a little. That " poet's consolation" suits them exactly, in a senti- 
mental kind of way ; but the consolidated fund also is not to be 
despised: and like the gigantic angel, while they trust one foot 
out to sea, they keep the other on the firm shore. ' 

Of Mangan it may be said that he lived solely in his poetry — 
all the rest was but a ghastly death-in-life. And now it remains to 
consider this side of his twofold existence. He was, though self- 
edH(!ated, a scholar. By what miraculous gift of apprehension he 
made his unaided studies so effective, in the attorney's othce, and 
on the top of library ladders, is hard to understand ; but certain 
it is, that he became a thorough classical scholar ; and of modern 
languages he was familiar with at least three, besides his own — 
namely, German, French, and Spanish ; and roved at will through 
the glowing garden of their poetic literature. It has been too 
readily assumed that he was also acquainted with the eastern 
tongues ; but this is at least doubtful ; and certainly liis verses 
purporting to be translated from, the Persian and the Coptic, were 
altogether his own. Somebody asked him why he gave credit to 
Ilafiz for such exquisite gems of his own poetry; because, he said, 
Hafiz paid better than Mangan — and any critic could see that tiiey 
were only lialf Ids. 

In the case of Irish songs and ballads, he generally selected for 
translation the most dismal and desolate. More than in any other 
mood of song he seemed to revel in the expression of passionate 
sorrow : and I know not that any other productions in the world 
breathe so intensely the very soul of woe and terrible desolation 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 21 

as do liis version of "O'llussey's Ode to tlie Maguire," the " La 
nient for the Irish Princes," " Sarsfield," " Kinkora," and " Dark 
Eosaleen." In these transhitions, as well as those froai the Ger- 
man, he did not assume lo be literal in words and phrases; nor, 
indeed, in general, was there any uniform unvarying version of 
the original poems, to which he could be literal, because they 
lived, for the most part only in the memories of the illiterate 
peasantry ; and Gaelic scholars, in iheir researches for authentic 
originals, usually found three or four different ballads, on the 
same subject and under the same name, having some lines and 
verses identical, but varying in the arrangement; always, liow- 
ever, agreeing in cadence and rhythm, in general scope and spirit. 
To this seo{)e and spirit he was always faithful ; and sometimes 
selected portions out of two or three codices (as supplied to him 
by his Gaelic friends) to make a perfect poem. 

Of the " Dark Kosaleen" {Boif>iii Dulli^ " Dark-haired Little 
Kose," or Eois Gheal Duhh '' Dark-haired, fair-skinned Kose"), 
there were, for example, at least three forms : none of them being 
technically the original of the poem in this volume ; and it may 
serve to illustrate his method of translating, if 1 present portions 
of two renderings which he made, somewhat literally from other 
versions of the same, as they are found in Mr. O'Daly's collection. 
This, passionate song, by tlie hereditary bard of the Clan-Conal 
refers to the time of the great struggle of the Northern clans 
against Queen Elizabeth's power; when the Irish v/ere encouraged 
by promises of aid from the King of Spain and th^ Pope ; and 
Eoisin Bulk means Ireland, according to the usage of the Celtio 
bards in personifying their country as a distressed virgin. 

Since last night's star, afar, afar, Heaven saw my speeJ, 

I seemed to tiy, o'er mountains high, on magic steed, 

I dashed tlirougli Erne : — the world may learn the cause from Love; 

For light or sun shone on me none, but Roiain Duhh ! 

Eoisin mine ! droop not nor pine, look not so duUl 
The Pope from Uome hath sent thee home a pardon full I 
The priests are near : O ! never fear ! from Heaven above 
They come to thee — they come to free my RuUin Duhh! 

Thee have I loved — fur thee have roved o'er land and sea: 
My heart was sore; — it evermore beat bat for thee. 

1 could but weep — I cuuld not sleep — I could not move; 
For, niglii and day, I dreamt alway of Iioisi?i Duhh ! 

Through Munster's lands, by shores and strands, far could I roam, 
H I might get my loved one yet, and bring her home. 
O, sweetest dower, that blooms in bower, or dell, or grove, 
Thou lovest me, and I love thee, my Eoisin Duhh I 



22 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 



The sea shall burn, the earth shall mourn — the skies rain blood — 
The world shall rise in dread surprise and warful mood — 
And hill and lake in Eire shake, and hawk turn dove — 
Ere you shall i)ine, ere you decline, my Roisiii, Dubh I 

From another Jiuisin Duhli,. 

My guiding Star of Hope you are, all glow and grace, 
My blooming Love, my Spouse above all Adam's race ; 
In deed or thought you cherish nought of low or mean ; 
The base alone can hate my own — my Dark lioisitt ! 

O, never mourn as one forlorn, but bide your hour ; 

Your frieniis ere long, combined and strong, will prove their power. 

From distant Spain will sail a train to change the scene 

That makes you sad, for one more glad, my Dark Raisin I 

Till then, adieu ! my Fond and True ! adieu, till then ! 
Though now you grieve, still, still believe we'll meet again ; 
I'll yet return, with hopes that burn, and broad-sword keen; 
Fear not, nor think you e'er can sink, my Dark Raisin 1 

Of "Kathaleen Ni Iloulahan," a Jacobite song about a century 
and a half old, besides the transhition given in tiiis voktme, Man- 
gan versified also another original only partially agreeing with it, 
of which 1 may give a sample here : 

Let none believe this lovely Eve outworn or old — 

Fair is her form ; her blood is warm, her heart is bold. 

Though strangers long have wrought her wrong, she will not fawn — 

Will not prove mean, our Caitilin Ni UuUachain I 

Her stately air, her flowing hair— her eyes that far 
Pierce througli the gloom of Banba's doom, each like a star; 
Her songful voice that makes rejoice hearts Grief hath gnawn, 
Prove her our Queen, our Caitilin Ni Uallachain ! 

We will not bear the chains we Avear, not hear them long. 
We seem bereaven, but mighty Heaven will make us strong. 
The God who led through Ocean lied all Israel on 
Will aid our Queen, our Caitilin Ni Uulladiain ! 

Kathaleen Ni Houlahan, here spelled in the Gaelic manner, is 
again but an emblematic name for Ireland. 

In other cases, however, there is but one known form of the 
original, to which the translator has adliered with considerable 
closeness. Perhaps the two most characteristic of these are 
"O'llussey's Ode" and " Sarsfield," ballads of wonderful power 
and passion, but of a dreary desolation almost frigiitful. And it 
must be confessed that this character of extravagant but impotent 
passion greatly prevails throughout the Irish ballads at all times, 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 23 

expressing not only that misery produced by ages of torture and 
humiliation, but the excessively impressible temperament of the 
Gael, ever ready to sink into blackest despondency and blind 
rage, or to rise into rapturous triumph ; a temperament which 
makes botli men and nations feeble in adversity, and great, gay, 
and generous in prosperity. One might say many wise things on 
the advantages or disadvantages of this sort of national character; 
but those who are gifted with it, or cursed Avith it, must only 
make tlie best of it ; being, as they are — 

" Kindly Irish of the Irish, 
Neither Saxons nor Italians." 

Of the original poems in our volume, whether called transla- 
tions, or avowedly Mangan's own, the tone has this same mournful 
cadence ; like the splendid, but ghastly " Cahal Mor," the " Kara- 
manian Exile," " Kinkora," and those singuhir verses called 
" Twenty golden years ago," which blend the deepest pathos with 
a sort of fictitious jollity. For Mangan's pathos was all genuine, 
his laughter hollow and painful. In several poems he breaks out 
into a sort of humour, not hearty and merry fun, but rather gro- 
tesque, bitter, Fescennine buffoonery ; which leaves an unpleasant 
impression, as if he were grimly sneering at himself and at all the 
world ; purposely spoiling and marring the effect of fine poetry by 
turning it into burlesque; and shewing how meanly he regarded 
every thing, even his Art wdierein he lived and had his being, when 
he compared his own exalted ideal of Art and Life with the little- 
ness of all his experiences and performances. 

The German Translations, which were collected and published 
in Dublin, in 1845, under the title of " Anthologia Germanica," 
are likely to be always greatly most attractive to readers in our 
language, except perhaps Irish readers. Indeed some few of these 
must be regarded as perfect works of art in themselves, whether 
translations or not; never perhaps exceeded for strength, sweet- 
ness, clearness, and beauty of finish. If this judgment appear ex- 
travagant, let the reader before so pronouncing it, only read " The 
Dying Flower," from Eueckert, the "Spectre Caravan" from 
Freiligrath, and " Charlemagne and the Bridge of Moonbeams" 
from Geibler, — and if he can point out how any phrase or word 
could be altered without loss ; where the meaning could be made 
more transparently clear, the melody more perfect, or the whole 
(meaning and melody together) more admirably summed up in 
the last stanza of each, as in ihc. finale of a piece of music, then the 
praise I have awarded is too high. Undoubtedly these German 
translations are unequal. Two or three of those which appear in 



24 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 

this volume have been rendered perhaps as well, or better (if the 
reader chooses) by Longfellow or even by Bulwer, yet once read, 
in fitting mood of mind, their melody haunts the ear, and the soft 
dreamy beauty of the sumptuous robe which they sometimes throw 
around the dry bones of a ballad harsh and meagre enough before, 
leads one to believe that if the German author could see himself 
so richly clothed, he would admit that in the account between him 
and his translator, the balance would be heavily in favor of the 
latter. 

Literalness was in his eyes one of the least qualities of a truly 
faithful translator of poetry into poetry : and the license he allows 
himself in this regard is sometimes so great as to materially alter 
the author's meaning. In the "Death of Hofer," by Julius Mo- 
sen, for example, that most literal versifier, Baskerville, gives ua 
the two last stanzas almost word for word : 

"They bade him then kneel down, 
He answered, ' I will not ! 
Here standing will I die, 
As I have stood and fought. 
As now I tread this bulwark's bank, 
— Long life to my good Kaiser Frank, 
And Tyrol, hail to thee !'i 

A Grenadier then took 

The bandage from his hand. 

While Hofer spake a prayer, 

His last on earthly land. 

'Mark well,' he with loud voice exclaimed, 

' Now^re ! Ah ! 'twas badly aimed ! 

O Tyrol, fare thee well !' " 

Whether Mangan's free and easy rendering of this passage be 
an improvement or not, may be variously judged by different 
readers. Here it is : 

" The)"^ bade him kneel, but he with all 
A patriot's truth replied — 

' I kneel alone to God on high — 
As thus I stand so dare I die, 
As oft I fouglit, so let me fall ! 

Farewell' — his breast a moment swoll 
"With agony he strove to hide — 
' My Kaiser and Tyrol !' 



1 Es hi) mein quter Kaixer Franz, 
Hit ihin sein Land Tyrol. 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 25 



No more emotion he betrayed ; 
Again he bade farewell 

To Francis and the faithful men 

"Who girt his throne. His hands were then 
Unbound for praj-er, and thus he prayed— 

' God of the Free, receive my soul ! 
Andyoic, slaves, Fire P So bravely fell 

Thy foremost man, Tyrol !" 

In this last verse the translator curries himself back to the 
scene, puts himself in Hofer's place, with the Bavarian soldiery 
before him, false to the cause of Germany, and utters, through 
the hero's mouth, that indignant scorn of liis executioners which 
the great Tyrolien must have felt. Like Thucydides, or iike 
some chroniclers of General Taylor's Mexican battles, he gives us 
not what was actually said, but what, under the circumstances, 
might, could, or would have been said. 

In some cases, indeed, the freedom of translation goes much 
further than this. In that most beautiful chaunt entitled "The 
Kide round the Parapet," Mangan has so transformed, so draped 
and ornamented Friedrich Kueckert that his mother could scarcely 
know him. In the original there is no " Lady Eleonora von Al- 
leyne" at all, no " Margrave Gondibert;" and although in the last 
two stanzas there is given to the story the sauie grotesque turn, so 
dear to the heart of Mangan, yet he has exercised his privilege by 
adding additional circumstances of wild and bacchanal buifoonery. 
This ballad has been very gracefully rendered by Mr. Charles T. 
Brooks ;i of whose poem a specimen or two will exhibit, by com- 
parison, the luxuriant wealth of Mangun's amplification — Mr. 
Brooks thus gives the first three, represented by Mangan's first 
five^ rolling and resounding stanzas — 

The Greeting on Kynast. 

"She said : This narrow chamber is not for me the place, 
Said the Lady Kunigunde of the Kynast! 
'Tis pleasanter on horseback, Til hie me to the chase, 
Said the Lady Kunigunde ! 

She said: The knight who weds me, I do require of him, 

Said the Lady Kunigunde of Kynast! 
To gallop round the Kynast, and break not neck nor limb. 

A noble knight came forward and galloped round the wall ; 

The Lady Kunigunde of Kynast, 
The lady without lifting a finger saw him fall." 

Then, when tlic fated " Man of men," comes to his conquest, 

1 German I-yrics. By Charles T. Biooks. Boston : Ticknov, Reed, & Fields. 

3 



26 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 

who in the original is not a Margrave Gondibert, but a Landgrave 
Adelbert,— the scene so liighly wrought by Mangan is given thus 
simply — 

" She saw him now make ready, then trembled she and sighed, 
The Lady Kunignnde ; 
Woe's me that I so fearful have made tlie bridal ride ! 

Then rode he round the Kynast; her face she turned away 

The Lady Kunigunde : 
Woe's me, tho knight is riding down to liis grave to-day ! 

He rides around the Kynast, right round the narrow wall ; 

The Lady Kunigunde ! 
She cannot stir, for terror, her lily hand at all. 

He rides around the Kynast, clear round the battlement; 

The Lady Kunigunde ! 
As if a breath might kill him, she held her breath suspent." 

In comparing Mangan's translations from Seliiller with those by 
Bnlwer from the same poet, we find tlie former, as usual, less 
faithful to the verbal expression, but quite as true to the soul 
and spirit, and infinitely more poetic. One of the finest pieces in 
Bulwer's volume is certainly " The Ideal ;" which Mangan chooses 
to call "The Unrealities." Take parallel passages— 



'The snns, serene, are lost and vanished 

That wont the path of youth to gild, 
And all the fair ideals banished 

Fnmi that wild heart they whilom filled. 
Gone the divine and sweet believing 

In dreams which heaven itself unfurled! 
What godlike shapes have years bereaving 

Swept from this real, workday world ! 

As once, with tearful passion fired. 

The Cyprian sculptor clasped the stone 
TiUthe crdd checks, delight-inspired, 

Blnshed~to sweet life the marble grown. 
So youth's desire for Nature ! round 

The statue so my arms I wreathed, 
Till warmth and life in mine it found. 

And hrcath that poets breathe— it breathed, 

With my own burning thoughts it burned ; 

Its silence stirred to speech divine. 
Its lips my glowing kiss returned ; 

Its heart in beating ansvvered mine ! 



27 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 



ITow fair was then tlie flower — the tree ! 

How si]ver-swo«t the fountain's fall ! 
The soulless had a soul to me ; 

My life, its own life lent to all !" 



"Extinguished in dead darkness lies the sun 

That lighted up in)' shrivelled world of wonder; 
Those fairy bands Imagination spun 

Around my heart have long been reft asunder, 
Gone, gone, forever, is the fine belief. 

The all-too-generous trust in the Ideal : 
All my Divinities have died of grief, 

And left me wedded to the Rude and Real. 

As clasped the enthusiastic Prince of old, - 

The lovely statue stricken by its charms, 
Until tiie marble, late so dend and cold. 

Glowed into throbbing life beneath his arms. 
So fondly round enchanting Nature's form, 

I too entwined my passionate arms, till, pressed 
In my embraces, she began to warm 

And breathe and revel in my bounding breast. 

And, sympathizing with my virgin bliss, 

The speechless things of Earth received a tongue; 
They gave me back affection's burning kiss, 

And loved the melody my bosom sung: 
Then sparkled hues of life on tree and flower. 

Sweet music from the silver fountain flowed ; 
All soulless images in that brief hour 

The echo of my life divinely glowed !" 

There is not perhaps a more deliciously musical poem in this 
whole collection than the " Antiunn-Song," from Ludwig Tick: 

" A little bird flew through the dell, 
And where the failing sunbeams fell 
He warbled thus his wondrous lay, 
'Adieu ! adieu ! I go away : 

Far, far. 
Must I voyage ere the twilight star !' 

It pierced me through, the song he sang, 
With many a sweet and bitter pang: 
For wounding joy, delicious pain, 
My bosom swelled and sank again : — 

Heart! heart! 
Is it drunk with bliss or woe thou art?" &c. 

And this is almost exactly literal, save that the original has no 



28 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 

"twilight star." The metre too is here accurately preserved; 
and all the passion of the apostrophe is retained. 

" Mitfrohem Schmerz, mit truher Lust, 
Stieg wechselnd halcl und sank die Bruat ; 

Herz, herz, 
BHchst du vor Woiin' oder Sahmevz /" 

Amongst the pieces now for the tirst time collected, will be 
found "Tlie Midnight Review," by B:iron Zedlitz, and Koerner's 
famous " Sword Soiisr." They nre both rather faithful (for Man- 
gan), yet not witli£)ut some of his characteristic ornamentation. 
In the spectral " Review," Napoleon rising from his grave to 
parade his ghostly troops, is thus described : 

"Er tragi ein kleines Tliitchcn, 
Er tragi ein einfach Kleid." 

Here was a difficulty for the many translators of the "Review." 
Mr. Frothinghami very conscientiously gives us : 

" He wears a little hat, 

And a coat quite plain has on." 

The author of the version which appears in Mr. Dana's " House- 
hold Book" is equally exact : 

" A little Hat he wears, 

A coat quite plain wears he." 

Baskerville, with all his principles of verbatim rendering, cannot 
endure the " Little Hat," and so dignifies the Little Hat into a 
plumeless helm : 

"No plume his helm adorneth 
His garb no regal i)ride.'" 

If Mangan had preserved the head-gear at all, his propensity to 
slang might have tempted him to say— 

" He wore a Little Tile;" 

but prudently avoiding the spectral head altogether, he decorates 
his imperial ghost with the Star of the Legion of Honour. 

One other example of Mangan's habit of adding a thought to 
liis original, may be given. Mr. Frothingliami has very nobly 
translated that matchless "Dying Flower" of Rueckert; and has 
thus admirably rendered one of the stanzas : 

1 Metrical Pieces ; Translated and Original. Bj' N. L. Fiothingham. Boston, 
1855. 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 29 



" For every gentle note of Spring ; 
Each Summer's gale I trembled to ; 
Each golden insect's dancing wing, 
That gaily round my leaflets flew; 
For eyes that sparkled at my hues ; 
For hearts that blessed my fragrancy ; — 
Made but of tints and odorous dews, 
Maker, I still give tlianks to thee." 

Which is presented by Maiigan thus : 

" How often soared my soul aloft, 

In balmy bliss too deep to speak, 
"When Zephyr came and kissed with soft, 

Sweet incense-breath my blushing cheek ! 
When beauteous bees and butterflies 

Flew round me in the summer beam, 
Or wJien some virgin'' s glorious eyes 

Bent o'er me like a dazzling dream /" 

If Mr. Lonsrfellow's beautiful transhxtions of "The Castle by 
the Sea," "The Black Knight" (Mangan's "Spring Roses"), 
and "Whither" (Mangan's "Noon-Day Dreaming"), were not 
so well known, one might collate tliem with the versions of the 
same poems in this volume. But every reader can do this for 
himself, and generally with the same result — save that while it 
is easy to decide tliat Mr. Longfellow is more faithful, it is hard 
to say which is the more musical. It is a grievous pity that 
Longfellow's poems from the German are so few; seeing that no 
man now living could carry us with such a pomp of purple words 
into the magnificent temple of Teuton Song. 

No reader who considers th.e man Mangan, and his sad, strange 
death-in-life, will wonder to find that in his selection of poems for 
translation, he has been irresistibly drawn to so many whose bur- 
den is dreary retrospection, or a longing for the peace of the grave. 
There is also another class of ballads, in which the German litera- 
ture excels all others, and which never did, and never will find so 
fitting an interpreter as Clarence Mangan : — those poems, namely, 
which strive to utter that vague, yearning aspiration towards 
somewhat nobler and grander than the world can give us, — that 
passionate stretching forth of liands to reach the ever-flying Ideal, 
which must be to us all as tlie fair Cloud Juno was to Ixion. It 
is the mysterious Longing which Scliiller calls Sehnsncht. In the 
poems called by Mangan "Home-sickness," the "Garden that 
fades not," — especially in that marvellously impassioned song of 
Tiek, " Life is tlie Desert and the Solitude," this ardent craving, 
as with strong crving and tears, for the fair realm of perfect Lib- 



30 JAMES CLARENCE MANGAN I 



erty and Love outside the prison bars of flesli and sense, is surely 
uttered with a pathos as profound as human utterance was ever 
made to express : 

" "Whence this fever? 
Whence this burning 
Love and Longing? 

* * * 
Thence what fragrant 

Airs are blowing! 
What rich vagrant 
Music flowing! 

* * * 
In vain I pine and sigh 

To trace thy dells and sti'eams : 
They gleam but by the spectral sky 

That lights my shifting dreams. 
Ah! what fair form, flitting tlirough yon green glades, 
Dazes mine eye? Spirit, oh ! rive my chain !" 

So, witli neitlier possibility of attaining nor capacity for enjoy- 
ing a nobler superhuman life, man continually bends forward 
towards the glorious, glowing Distance : — " the eye is not satis- 
fied with seeing, nor the ear filled with hearing :"—" On the 
whole it is much to be feared," says the Chevalier de Montaigne, 
" it is much to be feared, that our eyes are bigger than our bel- 
lies." Here is "The Desire of the Motli for the Star;"— which 
however demonstrates, perhaps, that the true hoine of the Moth, 
could he but find it, lies somewhere beyond the crystalline 
spheres. 

Many readers of poetry, familiar witli the sensuous luxury of 
love-poems, like those of Owen-Meredith, Bulwer-Lytton, and 
others, may be disgusted with the spiritual purity of Mangan. 
In this respect he will be found sensitively scrupulous, even al- 
most to a fault : as where, in Hoelty's " Song exciting to glad- 
ness," he renders a passage thus: 

"The wine, the chaliced wine, still sheds its purple splendour 
On souls tliat droop in Griefs eclipse; 
And in the rosy glen is still as fond and tender 
The kiss from pure Affection's hps." 

But Hoelty has nothing of " pure Affection ;" and most persons 
Avill agree that there would have been no great luirm in the Trans- 
lator giving us the sentiment as it stands — namely, that kisses 
from a Eed-Mouth in an evening bower are still as delicious as, 



HIS LIFE, POETRY, AND DEATH. 31 

according to the best authorities, they were in ancient times ; and 
the Poet encourages his readers to " ghuiness," by inculcating 
that there is yet so much to live for.' 

The allotted space is exhausted ; and indeed this present editor 
has discoursed so long of Mangan, not so much for the reader's 
delectation as for his own. This volume contains not all Man- 
gan's poems, but only about two-thirds of tliem. In the selection 
some may be omitted which are favorites with his readers ; for 
no compiler can satisfy every taste. They have been selected with 
my best skill ; and so let the reader take theui, with a benison. 

J. M. 

i Noch schnieckrt in der Ahemllnuhe 
Der Kuss au/einen rolhen Mund. 



GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



FRIEDRICH SCHILLER. 



■ ^z faj) of lljc §tll 

Vivos voco. Mortuos plango. Fulgura frango. 

PEEPAKATION FOK FOUNDING THE BELL. 

FiEMLT walled within the soil 

Stands the firebaked mould of clay. 
Courage, comrades ! Now for toil ! 
For we cast the Bell to-day. 
Sweat must trickle now 
Down the burning brow, 
If the work may boast of beauty ; 
Still 'tis Heaven must bless our duty. 



A word of earnest exhortation 

The serious task before us needs : 
Beguiled by cheerful conversation, 

How much more lightly toil proceeds ! 
Then let us here, with best endeavor. 

Weigh well what tliese our labors mean : 
Contempt awaits that artist ever 

Who plods through all, the mere machine; 



34 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

But Thouglit makes Man to dust superior, 
And he alone is thoughtfulsouled 

"Who ponders in liis heart's interior 
"Whatever shape his hand may mould. 



Gather first the pine-tree wood, 

Only be it wholly dry, 
That the flame, with subtle flood, 
Through the furnace-chink may fly. 
Now the brass is in. 
Add the alloy of tin, 
That the ingredients may, while warm, 
Take the essential fluid form. 



OFFICES OF THE BELL. 

What here in caverns by the power 

Of fire our mastering fingers frame, 
Hereafter from the belfry tower 

Will vindicate jts makers' aim ; 
'Twill speak to Man with voice unfaihng 

In latest years of after-days. 
Will echo back the mourner's wailing. 

Or move the heart to prayer and praise : 
In many a varying cadence ringing, 

The willing Bell will publish far 
The fitful changes hourly springing 

Beneath Man's ever-shiftino; star. 



Surface-bubbles glittering palely 
Show the mixture floweth well 



SCHILLER. 35 



Mingle now the quick alcali ; 
That will help to found the Bell. 
Purified from scum 
Must the mass become, 
That the tone, escaping free, 
Clear and deep and full may be. 



THE BIRTH-DAY BELL. 

For, with a peal of joyous clangor 

It hails the infant boy, that in 
The soft embrace of sleep and languor 

Life's tiring travel doth begin. 
His brighter lot and darker doom 
Lie shrouded in the Future's womb. 
Watched over by his tender mother, 
His golden mornings chase each other; 
Swift summers fly like javelins by. 
The woman's j'oke the stripling spurneth; 

He rushes wildly forth to roam 
The wide world over, and returneth 

When years have wheeled — a stranger — home. 
Arrayed in Beauty's magic might, 

A vision from the Heaven that's o'er him, 
With conscious blush and eye of light. 

The bashful virgin stands before him. 
Then flies the youth his wonted sports. 

For in his heart a nameless feeling 
Is born ; the lonesome dell he courts. 

And down his cheek the tears are stealing. 
He hangs upon her silver tone. 

He tracks with joy her very shadow, 



i)G GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And culls, to deck his lovely one, 

The brightest flowers that gem the meadow. 
Oh, golden time of Love's devotion, 

When tenderest hopes and thrills have birth, 
When hearts are drunk with blest emotion, 

And Heaven itself shines out on Earth ! 
Were thy sweet season ever vernal ! 
Were early Youth and Love eternal ! 



Ha! the pipes appear embrowned, 

So this little staff I lower : 
'Twill be time, I wis, to found. 
If the fluid glaze it o'er. 

Courage, comrades ! Move ! 
Quick the mixture prove. 
If the soft but well unite 
With the rigid, all is right. 



THE WEDDING-BELL. 

For, where the Strong protects the Tender, 
Where Might and Mildness join, they render 

A sweet result, content ensuring ; 
Let those then prove who make election. 
That heart meets heart in blent affection, 

Else Bliss is brief, and Grief enduring ! 
In the bride's rich ringlets brightly 

Shines the flowery coronal, 
As the Bell, now pealing lightly. 

Bids her to the festal hall. 
Fairest scene of Man's elysian 

World ! thou closest life's short May : 



SCHILLER. 3*7 

With the zone and veiP the Vision 
Melts in mist and fades for aye ! 

The rapture has fled, 

Still the love has not perished ; 

The blossom is dead, 

But the fruit must be cherished. 

The husband muot out. 

He must mix in the rout, 

In the struggle and strife 

And the clangor of life. 

Must join in its jangle. 

Must wrestle and wrangle, 

O'erreaching, outrunning, 

By force and by cunning, 

That Fortune propitious 

May smile on his wishes. 
Then riches flow in to his uttermost wishes ; 
His warehouses glitter with all that is precious ; 

The storehouse, the mansion, 

Soon call for expansion. 

And busied within is 

The orderly matron. 

The little ones' mother,'* 

Who is everywhere seen 

As she rules like a queen, 

The instructress of maidens 

And curber of boys ; 

1 Mit dem Giirtel, mlt dem Schleier, 
Reiszt der sclioue Wahn entzwei. 
Schiller here alludes to that custom of antiquity according to which the bride- 
groom unloosed the zone and removed the veil of his betrothed. Among the an- 
cients, to unbind the cestus, and to espouse, were expressions meaning the same 
thing. Hence the well-known line of Catullus — 

Quod possit zonam xolvere vlrgineam. 

3 Here, and in a few subsequent passages, Schiller omits his rhymes. 

4 



38 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Aad seldom she lingers 
lu plying her fingers, 
But doubles the gains 
By her prudence and pains, 
And winds round the spindle the threads at her leisure. 
And fills odoriferous coffers with treasure. 
And storeth her shining receptacles full 
Of snowy-white linen and pale-colored wool, 
And blends with the Useful the Brilliant and Pleasing, 
And toils without ceasing. 
And the fatiier counts his possessions now, 
As he paces his house's commanding terrace, 
And he looks around with a satisfied brow 
On his pillar-like trees in rows unending, 

And his barns and rooms that are filling amain, 
And his granaries under their burden bending. 
And his wavy fields of golden grain, 
And speaks with exultation, 
"Fast as tlie Earth's foundation. 
Against all ill secure, 
Long shall my house endure!" 
But ah! wMth Destiny and Power 
No human paction lasts an hour, 
And Ruin rides a restless courser. 



Good ! The chasm is guarded well ; 

Now, my men ! commence to found ; 
Yet, before ye run the Bell, 

Breathe a prayer to Heaven around ! 
Wrencli the stopple-cork ! 
God protect our work ! 
Smoking to the bow it flies. 
While the flames around it rise. 



SCHILLER. 39 



THE FIEE-BELL. 



Fire works for good with noble force 
So long as Man controls its course ; 
And all he rears of strong or slight 
Is debtor to this heavenly might. 
But dreadful is this heavenly might 
When, bursting forth in dead of night, 
Unloosed and raging, wide and wild 
It ranges, Nature's chaiidess child! 
Woe! when oversweeping bar, 

With a fury naught can stand, 
Through the stifled streets afar 

Kolls the monstrous volumebrand ! 
For the elements ever war 

Witli the works of human hand. 
From the cloud 

Blessings gush ; 
From the cloud 

Torrents rush ; 
From the cloud alike 
Come the bolts that strike. 
Laeum peals from lofty steeple 
Rouse the people ! 
Red, like blood, 

Heaven is flashing ! 
How it shames the daylight's flood ! 

Hark ! what crashing 
Down the streets ! 
Smoke ascends in volumes ! 
Skyward flares the flame in columns! 



40 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Through the tent-like lines of streets 

Eapidly as wind it fleets! 

Now the white air, waxing hotter, 

Glows a furnace — pillars totter — 

Rafters crackle — casements rattle — 

Mothers fly — 

Children cry — 

Under ruins whimper cattle. 

All is horror, noise, affright ! 

Bright as noontide glares the night ! 
Swung from hand to hand with zeal along 
By the throng. 

Speeds the pail. In bow-like form 
Sprays the hissing watershower, 
But the madly-howling storm 

Aids the flames with wrathful power; 
Round the shrivelled fruit they curl ; 
Grappling with the granary-stores, 
Now they blaze through roof and floors, 
And with upward-dragging whirl, 
Even as though they strove to bear 
Earth herself aloft in air. 
Shoot into the vaulted Void, 
Giant-vast ! 
Hope is past : 

Man submits to God's decree. 
And, all stunned and silently. 
Sees his earthly All destroyed ! 

Burned a void 

Is the Dwelling: 

Winter winds its wailing dirge are knelling; 

In the skeleton window-pits 



SCHILLER. 41 

Horror sits, 

And exposed to Heaven's wide woof 

Lies the roof. 

One glance only 

On the lonely 

Sepulchre of all his wealth below 

Doth the man bestow ; 

Then turns to tread the world's broad path. 

It matters not what wreck the wrath 

Of fire hath brought on house and land, 
One treasured blessing s-till he hath, 

His Best Beloved beside him stand ! 



Happily at length, and rightly. 
Doth it fill the loamy frame : 
Think ye will it come forth brightly ? 
"Will it yet fulfil our aim ? 
If we fail to found ? 
If the mould rebound ? 
Ah ! perchance, when least we deem, 
Fortune may defeat our scheme. 



In hope our work we now confide 

To Earth's obscure but hallowed bosom ; 

Therein the sower, too, doth hide 

The seed he hopes shall one day blossom, 

If bounteous Heaven shall so decide. 

But holier, dearer Seed than this 
We bury oft, with tears, in Earth, 

And trust that from the Grave's abyss 

'Twill bloom forth yet in brighter birth. 
4* 



42 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



THE PASSING BELL. 

Hollowly and slowly, 

By the Bell's disastrous tongue, 
Is the melancholy 

Knell of death and burial rung. 
Heavily those muffled accents mourn 
Some one journeying to the last dark bourne. 

Ah ! it is the spouse, the dear one ! 
Ah! it is that faithful mother! 
She it is that thus is borne, 
Sadly borne and rudely torn 
By the sable Prince of Spectres 
From her fondest of protectors — 
From the children forced to flee 
Whom she bore him lovingly. 
Whom she gazed on day and night 
With a mother's deep delight. 
Ah ! the house's bands, that held 

Each to each, are doomed to sever: 
She that there as mother dwelled 

Roams the Piiantomland forever. 
Truest friend and best arranger! 

Thou art gone, and gone for aye ; 
And a loveless hireling stranger 

O'er thine orphaned ones will sway. 



Till the Bell shall cool and harden. 
Labor's heat a while may cease; 

Like the wild bird in the garden. 
Each may play or take his ease. 



SCHILLER. 43 



Soon as twinkles Hesper, 
Soon as chitnes the Vesper, 
All the workman's toils are o'er, 
But the master frets the more. 



Wandering through the lonely greenwood. 

Blithely hies the merry rover 

Forward towards his humble hovel. 

Bleating sheep are homeward wending. 

And tlie herds of 

Sleek and broad-browed cattle come with 

Lowing warning 

Each to fill its stall till morning. 

Townward rumbling 

Keels the wagon, 

Corn-o'erladen, 

On whose sheaves 

Shine the leaves 

Of the Garland fair. 

While the youtliful band of reapers 

To the dance repair. 

Street and market now grow stiller : 

Round the social liearth assembling, 

Gayly crowd the house's inmates. 

As the towngate closes creaking; 

And the earth is 

Robed in sable. 

But the night, which wakes aifright 

In the souls of conscience-haunted men, 

Troubles not the tranquil denizen. 

For he knows the eye of Law unsleeping 

Watch is keeping. 



44 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Blessed Order! heavendescended 

Maiden ! Early did she band 
Like with like, in union blended, 

Social cities early planned ; 
She the fierce barbarian brought 

From his forest-haunts of wildness ; 
She the peasant's hovel sought. 

And redeemed his mind to mildness, 
And first wove that everdearest band, 
Fond attachment to our Fatherland ! 



Thousand hands in ceaseless motion 

All in mutual aid unite, 
Every art with warm devotion 

Eager to reveal its might. 
All are bonded in aifection; 

Each, rejoicing in his sphere. 
Safe in Liberty's protection, 

Laughs to scorn the scoffer's sneer. 
Toil is polished Man's vocation : 

Praises are the meed of Skill ; 
Kings may vaunt their crown and station, 

We will vaunt our Labor still. 

Mildest Quiet ! 

Sweetest Concord ! 

Gently, gently 

Hover over this our town ! 

Ne'er may that dark day be witnessed 

When the dread exterminators 

Through our vales shall rush, destroying, 

When that azure 



SCHILLER. 45 



Softly painted by the rays of 

Sunset fair 
Shall (oil, horror!) with the blaze of 

Burning towns and hamlets glare! 



Now, companions, break the mould, 

For its end and use have ceased : 
On the structure 'twill unfold 
Soul and sight alike shall feast. 
Swing the hammer! Swing! 
Till the covering spring. 
Shivered first the mould must lie 
Ere the Bell may mount on high. 



The Master's hand, what time he wills, 

May break the mould ; but woe to ye 
If, spreading far in fiery rills, 

The glowing ore itseJJ" shall free! 
With roar as when deep thunder crashes 
It blindly blasts the house to ashes, 
And as from Hell's abysmal deep 
The deathtide rolls with lava sweep. 
Where lawless force is awless master 

Stands naught of noble, naught sublime ; 

Where Freedom comes achieved by Crime 
Her fruits are tumult and disaster. 



46 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



THE TOCSIN, OR ALAEM-BELL. 

Woe! when in cities smouldering long 

The pent-up train explodes at length! 
Woe! when a vast and senseless throng 

Shake off their chains by desperate strength I 
Then to the bellrope rushes Riot, 

And rings, and sounds the alarm afar, 
And, destined but for tones of quiet, 

The Tocsin peals To War ! To War ! 

"Equality and Liberty!" 

They shout: the rabble seize on swords; 
And streets and halls' fill rapidly 

With cutthroat gangs and ruffian hordes. 
Then women change to wild hyenas, 

And mingle cruelty with jest, 
And o'er their prostrate foe are seen, as 

With panther-teeth tiiey tear his breast. 
All holy shrines go tramided under: 

The Wise and Good in horror flee; 
Life's shamefaced bands are ripped asunder, 

And cloakless Riot wantons free. 
The lion roused by shout of stranger. 

The tiger's talons, these appal — 
But worse, and charged with deadlier danger, 

Ls reckless Man in Frenzy's thrall ! 
Woe, woe to those who attempt illuming 

Eternal blindness by the rays 
Of Truth! — they flame abroad, consuming 

Surrounding nations in their blaze! 

1 Die Straszen fallen sicli, die /Ta^/e/i.— Seliiller meHus public halls, as the Town 
Hall, the Halls of Justice, Ac. 



SCHILLER. 

God hath given my soul delight! 

Glancing like a star of gold, 
From its shell, all pure and bright. 
Comes the metal kernel rolled. 
Brim' and rim, it gleams 
As when sunlight beams ; 
And the armorial shield and crest 
Tell that Art hath wrought its best. 



In, in, companions every one ! 

By what name shall we now baptize the Bell? 

Concordia will become it well : 

For oft in concord shall its pealing loud 

Assemble many a gay and many a solemn crowd. 



41 



THE DESTINATION OF THE BELL. 

And this henceforward be its duty. 

For which 'twas framed at first in beauty; 

High o'er this world of lowly labor 

In Heaven's blue concave let it rise, 
And heave aloft, the thunder's neighbor, 

In commerce with the starry skies. 
There let it chorus with the story 

Of the resplendent planetsphere. 
Which nightly hymns its Maker's glory. 

And guides the garland-crowned year. 
Be all its powers devoted only 

To things eternal and sublime, 

1 Brim is the technical terra for the body of the bell, or that part upon which 
the clapper strikes. 



48 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

As liour by hour it tracks the lonely 

And forwardwinging flight of Time! 
To destiny an echo lending, 

But never doomed itself to feel, 
Forever be it found attending 

Each change of Life's revolving wheel ; 
And as its tone, when tolling loudest, 

Dies on the listener's ear away. 
So let it teach that all that's proudest 

In human might must thus decay ! 



Now attach the ropes — now move, 

Heave the Bell from this its prison, 
Till it hath to Heaven above 
And the realm of Sound arisen. 
Heave it! heave it! — there — 
Now it swings in air. 
Joy to this our city may it presage ! 
Peace attend its first harmonious message ! 



^]^t ptssagc to lljc Iroii-douitbrg. 

A BALLAD. 

A GoD-EEVEEiNG youth, we learn. 

Was gentle Fridolin : 
Reared by the Countess Von Savern, 

His childhood knew no sin. 
Oh ! she was mild — so mild and good ! 
But even Caprice's harshest mood 
He would have borne, this duteous boy, 
And borne, for love of God, with joy. 



SCHILLER. 49 

From streaky gleam of morning's light 

Until the vesper-toll, 
He wrought for her with earnest might, 

He gave her heart and soul. 
"Rest, rest, my child!" the dame would cry: 
Then tears would fill the Page's eye, 
But still he toiled, and seemed to feel 
The labor lost that wanted zeal. 

And therefore did the Countess raise 

Him o'er her menials all. 
And from her lovely lips his praise 

Was hourly heard to fall. 
Her knave or page he scarce was named ; 
His heart a filial interest claimed: 
And often would her pleasured glance 
Dwell on his comely countenance. 

^ow in the huntsman Robert, this 

Begot the wrath of Hell. 
With Envy's devilish venom his 

Black breast began to swell ; 
And listening to the Tempter's Avord, 
Straightway one day he sought his Lord, 
Fresh from the chase, and strewed with art 
Doubt's darkling seeds within his heart. 

"How blest are you, ray noble master!" 

So spake his cunning deep — 
" No spectral omens of disaster 

Affright your golden sleep. 
You have a pure and virtuous wife. 
Of rarest worth and purest life, 
5 



50 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Whose ever-spotless faith to stain 
Seducers might attempt in vain." 

Then loured his Master's brow of gloom — 

" What trumpery dost thou rave ? 
Shall Man on Woman's troth presume ? 

What shifts as shifts the wave 
Soon falls the losel wheedler's prey : 
My trust, I trow, hath sterner stay. 
Is here no gallant fop to earn 
Smiles from the Countess Von Savern." 

Quoth Robert, "Right, my Lord! — In sooth 

He should but move your scorn, 
Your pity. . Most audacious youth ! 

A thrall, a vassal born. 
To lift his wanton eyes to her, 
His Lady and his Fosterer!" 
"Ha!" cried the other, startled, "How? 
Who? AVhere? What youth? How sayest thou ?" 

" What ! Wis you not, my Lord, the tale 

They babble tar and nigh ? 
Nay, now, methinks you fain would veil 

The truth. AVell, so shall L" 
"Man!" cried tlie other, ''mock me not! 
Speak ! else I stab thee on the spot! 
Who dares to think on Cunigond?" 
" My Lord, that smock-faced page beyond. 

"In sooth he . . . seems ... a shapely springald," 
He said with damning art. 



SCHILLER. 

While cold and hot the quick blood tingled 

About his listener's heart. 
"And marked yon never, even by chance, 
How she, not you, absorbs liis glance, 
And how he leans, with lovesick air, 
At table o'er your Lady's chair ? 

"Look! Eead, my Lord, these amorous lines- 
Mark how his feelings burn ; 
He owns the love with which he pines, 

And asks a like return. 
Your highsoul'd Consort, with a view 
To spare him, screens his guilt from you. 
. . . But I have idly vexed your ear. 
For what, my Lord, have you to fear ?" 

At once into a neighboring wood 

The Count in frenzy rode. 
Wherein an Iron-foundry stood, 

Whose furnace redly glowed. 
Here, late and early, swinking hands, 
Fed voluraed flames and blazing brands, 
While sparkles flew, and bellows roar'd, 
And molten ore in billows poured. 

Here waves on waves, fires hot and hotter, 

In raging strength were found ; 
Huge millwheels, turned by foaming water, 

Clanged clattering round and round. 
Harsh engines brattled night and day ; 
The thunderous hammer stunned alway. 
With sledgeblows blended, which descended 
Till even the stubborn iron bended. 



62 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And, beckoning there to workmen two, 

He called them from theu' task. 
And spake : " The first who comes to you 

From me, and thus shall ask — 
'Have ye fullilled the Count's desh-e?' 
Him cast in yonder furnace-fire. 
So that his bones be cindered white, 
And he no more may blast my sight !" 

This dark behest the monsters twain 

Enjoyed with bloody zest. 
For anvil-dead had longtime lain 

The heart in cither's breast, — 
And iiercelier now they blow the fire, 
Till palier shoots its flame and higher, 
And glare thereon with gloating eyes, 
Impatient for the sacrifice. 

To Fridolin the huntsman speeds. 

And speaks witli oily tone — 
"Companion mine, the Master needs 

Thy presence : go alone !" 
He went: then spake the Count, "Must waste 
No time, but to the Foundry haste. 
And ask the furnace-men this word — 
'Have ye obeyed the Count, my Lord?' " 

Said Fridolin, " Without delay." 

But pausing musefully. 
Perchance, he thought, my Lady may 

Have some commands for me. 
Anon before the Dame he stands. 
And speaks: "Mv Lord the Count commands 



SCHILLER, 53 

Me to the Foundry ; so, if thou 
Wouldst aught, I bide thy bidding now.'* 

RepHed the Dame, with silvery tone — 

" My son lies ill, alas ! 
Else I to-day had gladly gone 

To hear the holy Mass. 
Go thou, my child, instead, and be 
Thine orisons to God for me. 
So, when thy sins are blanched by Heaven, 
Mine too, I trust, may be forgiven." 

The Page received with joy the glad 

And everwelcorae order; 
But ere with bounding step he had 

Attained the village border, 
Hark! toll! and toll! the Minster-bell 
Pealed out with clear and solemn swell, 
Inviting chosen souls to share 
The Eucharistic banquet there. 

"If God shall call thee o'er and o'er, 

Resist not thou His will," 
He said, and entered at the door, 

But all within was still ; 
For these were harvest-days, and now 
Men toiled afield with sweltering brow, 
Nor clerk was nigh, nor choral throng 
To serve at Mass with answering song. 

Eftsoons the aisle he therefore trod. 
And filled the sexton's post : 
5* 



64 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Said he, " The tune we give to God, 

Be sure, is never lost." 
The stole npori the Priest he placed, 
And bound the cincture round his waist. 
And then prepared the water-glass 
And sacred chalice-cup for Mass. 

Which finished with decorous haste. 

The novice did not falter. 
But walked before the Priest, and placed 

The missal on the altar ; 
And knelt at left and right hand dulj. 
And answered reverently and truly ; 
And as the Priest the Sanctus sang. 
His. little bell three times he rang. 

And when the Priest, inclining lowly. 

Knelt humbly to adore 
The present God whom, pure and holy, 

In hand upraised he bore, 
The bell again went tinkling, tinkling. 
To give the throng the usual inkling, 
And all, adoring Chkist, and kneeling. 
Then beat their breasts with contrite feeling. 

He thus accomplished all with ease. 

By quick perceptive thought, 
For he those hallowed usages 

From childhood had been taught ; 
Nor tired when at the close the Priest 
Pronounced the Ite: Missa est^ 
And, turning round, bestowed aloud 
His blessing on the assembled crowd. 



SCHILLER. 65 

Book, stole, and cup he then restored, 

Each to its place anew. 
And, having clean'd the altarboard, 

He noiselessly withdrew, 
And towards the wood, his purposed goal, 
Retook his way with placid soul, 
And, as his prayers were uncompleted, 
Twelve Paternosters more repeated. 

And reaching soon the hammerers' den, 

Mid smoke and storming fires, 
He stopped and asked — " Have you, ye men, 

Done what the Count desires?" 
When, pointing towards the furnace wide, 
And grimly grinning, one replied — 
" The cindered bones require no bellows — 
The Count may style us dexterous fellows!" 

He bears the answer to his Master, 

Who spies him with surprise. 
And, as he nears him, fast and faster, 

Almost mistrusts his eyes. 
" Unhappy wretch! Whence comest thou?" 
" This moment from the Foundry." " How ! 
Thou hast been loitering, then, elsewhere?" 
" My Lord, I stopped for Mass and prayer, — 

"For when this morning I retired 

With your command, I sought 
Your spouse, if haply she required 

My services iu auglit, 
Who bade me hear the Mass: content 
And wilHng, I obeyed and went; 



56 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And thrice I said my rosary 
For her and your prosperity." 

The Count, amazed and quivering, gazed. 

While terror blanched his cheek. 
" And what reply was given thee by 
The Foundry- workmen ? Speak !" 
"Obscure, my Lord, it seemed: One showed 
Me where the horrid furnace glowed. 
And grinned, and thus his answer flowed — 
' The cindered bones require no bellows : 
The Count may style us dexterous fellows 1' " 

"And Robert?" asked the Count — and strange 

Sensations iced his blood — 
" Didst thou not meet him on thy range ? 

I sent him to the wood," 
" My Lord, in wood or mead around 
No trace of Robert have I found." 
" Then," cried the Count, with reverent fear, 
" God has Himself passed judgment here !" 

And yielding to a softer mood. 

The unconscious Page he led 
Before his spouse (who understood 

The mystery not), and said — 
" Be kind and bounteous tow'rds this child; 
No angel is more undefiled. 
Though men misjudge, condemn, distrust, 
God and his Saints watoh o'er the Just." , / 



SCHILLER. 57 



^t §xbtx, 

BALLAD 



" Baeon op vassal, is any so bold 

As to plunge in yon gulf and follow 
Through chamber and cave this beaker of gold, 

Which already the waters whirlingly swallow ? 
Who retrieves the prize from the horrid abyss 
Shall keep it : the gold and the glory be his!" 

So spake the King, and incontinent flung 
From the cliff that, gigantic and steep. 

High over Charybdis's whirlpool hung, 
A glittering wine-cup down in the deep ; 

And again he asked, " Is there one so brave 

As to plunge for the gold in the dangerous wave ?" 

And the knights and the knaves all answerless hear 
The challenging words of the speaker; 

And some glance downwards with looks of fear, 
And none are ambitious of winning the beaker. 

And a third time the King his question urges— 

"Dares none, then, breast the menacing surges?" 

But the silence lasts unbroken and long; 

When a Page, fair-featured and soft. 
Steps forth from the shuddering vassal-throng. 

And his mantle and girdle already are doffed, 
And the groups of nobles and damosels nigh, 
Envisage the youth with a wondering eye. 



58 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

He dreadlessly moves to the gaunt crag's brow, 
And measures the drear depth under; — 

But the waters Charybdis had swallowed she now 
Eegurgitates bellowing back in thunder ; 

And the foam, with a stunning and horrible sound, 

Breaks its hoar way through the waves around. 

And it seethes and roars, it welters and boils. 
As Avhen water is showered upon fire; 

And skyward the spray agonizingly toils. 

And flood over flood sweeps higher and higher, 

Upheaving, downrolling, tumultuously. 

As though the abyss would bring forth a young sea. 

But the terrible turmoil at last is over; 

And down through the whirlpool's well 
A yawning blackness ye may discover. 

Profound as the passage to central Hell ; 
And the waves, under many a struggle and spasm, 
Are sucked in afresh by the gorge of the chasm. 

And now, ere the din rethunders, the youth 

Invokes the Great Name of God ; 
And blended shrieks of horror and ruth 

Burst forth as he plunges headlong unawed : 
And down he descends through the watery bed. 
And the waves boom over his sinking head. 

But though for a while they have ceased their swell. 

They roar in the hollows beneath, 
And from mouth to mouth goes round the farewell — 

"Brave-spirited youtli, good-night in death!" 



SCHILLER. 59 

And louder and louder the roarings grow, 
While with trembling all eyes are directed below. 



Now, wert thou even, O monarch ! to fling 

Thy crown in the angry abyss, 
And exclaim, " Who recovers the crown shall be king!' 

The guerdon were powerless to tempt me, I wis ; 
For what in Chary bdis's caverns dwells 
No chronicle penned of mortal tells. 

Full many a vessel beyond repeal 

Lies low in that gulf to-day, 
And the shattered masts and the drifting keel 

Alon tell the tale of the SAvooper's prey. 
But hark! — with a noise like the howling of storms, 
Again the wild water the surface deforms ! 

And it hisses and rages, it welters and boils, 

As when water is spurted on fire. 
And skyward the spray agonizingly toils. 

And wave over wave beats higher and higher, 
While the foam with a stunning and horrible sound, 
Breaks its white way through the waters around 

When lo ! ere as yet th billowy war 

Loud raging beneath is o'er. 
An arm and a neck are distinguished afar. 

And a swimmer is seen to make for the shore, 
And hardily buffeting surge and breaker. 
He springs upon land with the golden beaker. 

And lengthened and deep is the breath he draws 
As he hails the briglit face of the sun ; 



60 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And a murmur goes round of delight and applause — 
He lives ! — he is safe ! — he has conquered and won ! 
He has mastered Charybdis's perilous wave ! 
He has rescued his life and his prize from the grave! 

Now, bearing the booty triumphantly, 

At the foot of the throne he falls, 
And he proffers his trophy on bended knee ; 

And the King to his beautiful daughter calls, 
"Who tills with red wine the golden cup, 
While the gallant stripling again stands up. 

"All hail to the King! Rejoice, ye who breathe 
Wheresoever Earth's gales are driven! 

For ghastly and drear is the region beneath ; 

And let Man beware how he tempts high Heaven! 

Let him never essay to uncurtain to light 

What destiny shrouds in horror and night! 

" The maelstrom dragged me down in its course ; 

When, forth from the cleft of a rock, 
A torrent outrushed with tremendous force, 

And met me anew with deadening shock ; 
And I felt my brain swim and my senses reel 
As the double-flood wiiirled me round like a wheel. 

" But the God I had cried to answered me 

When my destiny darkiiest frowned. 
And He showed me a reef of rocks in the sea, 

Whereunto I clung, and there I found 
On a coral jag the goblet of gold, 
Which else to the lowermost crypt had rolled. 



SCHILLER. 61 

"And the gloom through measureless toises under 

"Was all as a purple haze ; 
And though sound was none in these realms of wonder, 

I shuddered when under my shrinking gaze 
That wilderness lay developed where wander 
The dragon, and dog-fish, and sea-salamander. 

" And I saw the huge kraken and magnified snake 

And the thornback and ravening shark 
Their way through the dismal waters take, 

While the hammer-fish wallowed below in the dark, 
And the river-horse rose from his lair beneath. 
And grinned through the grate of his spiky teeth. 

" And there I hung, aghast and dismayed, 

Among skeleton larvae, the only 
Soul conscious of life — despairing of aid 

In that vastness untrodden and lonely. 
Not a human voice — not an earthly sound — 
But silence, and water, and monsters around. 

"Soon one of these monsters approached me, and plied 

His hundred feelers to drag 
Me down through the darkness ; when, springing aside, 

I abandoned my hold of the coral crag. 
And the maelstrom grasped me with arms of strength, 
And upwhirled and upbore me to daylight at length." 

Then spake to the Page the marvelling King, 

"The golden cup is thine own. 
But — I promise thee further this jewelled ring 

That beams with a priceless hyacinth-stone, 



62 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Shouldst thou dive once more and discover for me 
The mysteries shrined in the cells of the sea." — 

Now the King's fair daughter was touched and grieved, 

And she fell at her father's feet — 
" O ftither, enough what the youth has achieved ! 

Expose not his life anew, I entreat! 
If this your heart's longing you cannot well tame. 
There are surely knights here who will rival his fame." — 

But the King hurled downwards the golden cup. 

And he spake, as it sank in the wave, 
"Now, shouldst thou a second time bring it me up, 

As my knight, and the bravest of all my brave. 
Thou shalt sit at my nuptial banquet, and she 
Who pleads for thee thus thy wedded shall be !" — 

Then the blood to the youth's hot temples rushes. 

And his eyes on the maiden are cast. 
And he sees her at first overspread with blushes, 

And then growing pale and sinking aghast. 
So, vowing to win so glorious a crown, 
For Life or for Death he again plunges down. 

The far-sounding din returns amain. 

And the foam is alive as before, 
And all eyes are bent downward. In vain, in vain — 

The billows indeed re-dash and re-roar. 
But while ages shall roll and those billows shall thunder, 
That youth shall sleep under! 



SCHILLER. 63 



A B ALL AD . 

He stood upon his palace-wall. 

His proud eye wandered over all 

The wealth of Saraos, east and west. 
" See ! this is mine — all this / govern !" 
He said, addressing Egypt's Sovereign, 

" Confess! my lot indeed is blest!" 

" Yes, thou hast won the Gods' high favor, 
For nobler men than thou, and braver. 
Thy rivals once, are now thy slaves ; 

But, Fate will soon revenge the wrong — 
I dare not call thee blest, so long 
As Heaven is just or Earth has graves!" 

While yet he spake, behold ! there came 

A messenger in Milo's name — 

*' Health to the great Polycrates ! 
O King, braid laurels in thy hair. 
And let new Pseans thrill the air. 

And incense-oiferings load the breeze ! 

" Spear-pierced, thy rebel foe lies dead. 
Behold ! I bear the traitor's head. 
Sent by thy General, Polydore." — 
Unrolling a dark shroud of cloth. 
He bared, before the gaze of both, 
A ghastly head, still dropping gore! 



64 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

The Stranger King shrank back a pace, 
Then said — " Thou art of mortal race : 
On earth Success but heralds 111. 

Thou hast a fleet at sea : Beware ! 

Tor waves and winds heed no man's prayer 
And Tempest wakes at Neptune's will!" 

But hark! a loud, a deafening shout 

Of welcome from the throng without ! 

" Joy ! joy!" The fleet so long away. 
So long away, so long awaited, 
At last is come, and, richly freighted, 

Oasts anchor in the exulting bay!" 

The Royal Guest hears all, astounded. 

"Thy triumphs, truly, seem unbounded. 

But are they ? No ! Thy star will set ; 
The javelins of the Cretan hordes 
Strike surer home than Samian swords, 

And thou must fall before them yet!" — 

Even while he warns again i^joice 
The crowd with one tumultuous voice — 
"Hurrah! Dread Sovereign, live alway ! 
The war is over! Lo! the storms 
Have wrecked thy foes ! The savage swarms 
Of Crete and Thrace are Neptune's prey!" 

"It is enough!" exclaimed the Guest : 
Blind Mortal! call thyself The Blest- 
Feel all that Pride and Conquest can ! 
I here predict thine overthrow, 



SCHILLER. 65 

For, perfect bliss, unstarred with woe, 
Came never yet from God to Man. 

"I too liave been most fortunate : 

At home, abroad, in camp and state, 

The bounteous Gods long favored me — 
Yet I have wept ! My only-cherished, 
My son died in my arms ! He perished, 

And paid my debt to Destiny. 

" If thou, then, wilt propitiate Fate, 

Pray God forthwith to adulterate 

Thy Cup of Joy ! In all my past 
Experience never knew I one 
Who too long filled a golden throne, 

But Ruin crushed the wretch at last ! 

" But if God will not liear thy prayer. 

Then woo Misfortune by some snare, 

Even as the fowler sets his gin. 

Hast here some jewel, some rare treasure, 
Thou lovest, prizest beyond measure ? 

The sea rolls yonder — hurl it in !" 

Replied the Host, now seized with fear, 

" My realm hath naught I hold so dear 

As this resplendent opal ring; 

If that may calm the Furies' wrath, 
Behold ! I cast it in their path ;" — 

And forth he flung the glittering thing. 

But when the morn again was come. 
There stood without the palace-dome 
6* 



66 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

A fisher with his teeming flasket, 

Who cried, " Great King, thy days be pleasant! 

Thou wilt not scorn my humble present, 
This fish, the choicest in my basket." 

And ere the mid-day meal the cook. 
With joy and wonder in his look, 
Ruslied in, and fell before his Master — 

" O glorious Victor! matchless King! 

Within the fish I found thy ring! 
Thou wast not born to know Disaster!" 

Hereon uprose the Guest in dread : 

"I tarry here too long," he said ; 

" O prosperous wretch ! my friend no more ! 

The Gods have willed thy swift perdition ! 

/will not bide the Avenger's mission!" 
He spake, and straightway left the shore. 



%\t f ostagc. 

A BALLAD. 

They seize m the Tyrant of Syracuse' halls 

A youth with a dagger in's vest: 

He is bound by the Tyrant's behest: 
The Tyrant beholds him — Rage blanches his cheek: 
"AVhy hiddest yon dagger, conspirator? Speak!" — 

"To pierce to the heart such as thou!" — 

"Wretch! Death on the cross is thy doom even 
now!" — 



SCHILLER. 67 

"It is well," spake the youth ; " I am harnessed for death; 

And I s"iie not thy sternness to spare ; 

Yet would I he granted one prayer : — 
Three days would I ask, till my sister be wed ; 
As a hostage, I leave thee my friend in my stead; 

If /be found false to my truth, 

Nail liim to thy cross without respite or ruth !" 



Then smiled with a dai-k exultation the King, 
And he spake, after brief meditation — 
" I grant thee three days' preparation ; 
But see thou outstay not the term I allow, 
Else, by the high thrones of Olympus I vow, 
That if thou shalt go scathless and free. 
The best blood of thy friend shall be forfeit for thee !' 



And Pythias repairs to his friend — "I am doomed 

To atone for my daring emprize. 

By Death in its shamefullest guise; 
But the Monarch three days ere I perish allows. 
Till I give a loved sister away to her spouse; 

Thou, therefore, my hostage must be, 

Till I come the third day, and again set thee free." 

And Damon in silence embraces his friend, 
And he gives himself up to the Despot; 
While Pythias makes use of his respite. 

And ere the third morning in Orient is burning 

Behold the Devoted already returning 
To save his friend ere it be later. 
By dying himself the vile death of a traitor! 



68 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

But the rain, the wikl rain, dashes earthwards in floods, 

Upswelling the dehiging fountains; 

Strong torrents rush down from the mountains, 
And lo! as he reaches tlie deep river's border 
The bridgeworlvs give way in terrific disorder, 

And the waves, with a roaring like thunder, 

Sweep o'er the rent wrecks of the arches, and under. 

To and fro by the brink of that river he wanders — 
In vain he looks out through the offing — 
The fiends of the tempests are scoffing 
His outcries for aid ; — from the opposite strand 
No pinnace puts oflT to convey him to land ; 

And, made mad by the stormy commotion. 
The river-waves foam like the surges of Ocean. 



Then he drops on his knees, and he raises his arms 
To Jupiter, Strength-and-Help-giver — 
"Oh, stem the fierce force of this river! 
The hours are advancing — Noon wanes — in the West 
Soon Apollo will sink — and my zeal and my best 
Aspirations and hopes will be baflfled — 
And Damon, my Damon, will die on a scaffold!" 

But the tempest abates not, the rapid flood waits not ; 
On, billow o'er billow comes hasting. 
Day, minute by minute, is wasting — 
And, daring the worst that the Desperate dare. 
He casts himself in with a noble despair; 
And he buffets the tyrannous waves — ■ 
And Jupiter pities the struggler — and saves. 



SCHILLER. 69 

The hours will not linger : his speed is redoubled— 
Forth, Faithfullest ! Bravest, exert thee ! 
The gods cannot surely desert thee ! 
Alas! as Hope springs in his bosom renewed, 
A band of barbarians rush out of the wood. 
And they block up the wanderer's path, 
x\nd they brandish their weapons in clamorous wrath. 

"What will ye?" he cries ; "I have naught but my life, 

And that must be yielded ere night : 

Force me not to defend it by fight!" 
But they swarm round him closer, that truculent band. 
So he wrests the huge club from one savage's hand. 

And he fells the first four at his feet; 

And the remnant, dismayed and astounded, retreat. 

The storm-burst is over — low glows the red sun. 

Making Earth and Air fainter and hotter; 

The knees of the fugitive totter — 
"Alas!" he cries, "have I then breasted the flood. 
Have I vanquished those wild men of rapine and blood. 

But to perish from languor and pain, 

While my hostage, my friend, is my victim in vain?" 



When, hark ! a cool sound, as of murmuring water 1 

He hears it — it bubbles — it gushes — 

Hark ! louder and louder it rushes ! 
He turns him, he searches, and lo ! a pure stream 
Ripples forth from a rock, and shines out in the beam 

Of the sun ere he fierily sinks. 

And the wanderer bathes his hot limbs, and he drinks. 



70 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

The sun looks his last! — On the oft-trodden pathway 

Hies homeward the weariful reaper ; 

The shadows of evening grow deeper. 
When, pressing and hurrying anxiously on, 
Two strangers pass Pythias — and list! he hears one 

To the other exclaiming, " Oh, shame on 

The wretch that betrayed the magnanimous Damon !'' 

Then Horror lends wings to his faltering feet, 
And he dashes in agony onward ; 
. And soon a few roofs, looking sunward, 

Gleam faintly where Sj^racuse' suburbs extend; 

And the good Philodemus, his freedman and friend, 
Now comes forward in tears to his master. 
Who gathers despair from that face of disaster. 

" Back, Master ! Preserve thine own life at the least ! 

His^ I fear me, thou canst not redeem. 

For the last rays of Eventide beam : 
Oh ! though hour after hour travelled on to its goal, 
He expected thy coming with confident soul. 

And though mocked by the King as forsaken. 

His trust in thy truth to the last was unshaken 1" 

" Eternal Avenger, and is it too late ?" 

Cried the youth, with a passionate fervor, 

"And dare not I be his preserver? 
Then Death shall unite whom not Hell shall divide! 
We will die, he and I, on the rood. Side by side. 

And the bloody Destroyer shall find 

That there he souls whom Friendship and Honor can 
bind!" 



SCHILLER. 71 

And on, on, unresting, he bounds like a roe : 
See! they lay the long cross on the ground ! 
See ! the multitude gather all round ! 

See ! already they hurry their victim along ! 

When, with giant-like strength, a man bursts through the 
throng, 
And — " Oh, stay, stay your hands!" is his cry — 
"I am come! — I am here! — I am ready to die!" 

And Astonishment masters the crowd at the sight, 
While the friends in the arms of each other 
Weep tears that they struggle to smother. 
Embarrassed, the lictors and officers bring 
The strange tidings at length to the ears of the King, 
And a human emotion steals o'er him, 
And he orders the friends to be summoned before him. 



And, admiring, he looks at them long ere he speaks — 
" You have conquered, O marvellous pair, 
By a friendship as glorious as rare ! 

You have melted to flesh the hard heart in my breast! 

Go in peace! — you are free! But accord one request 
To my earnest entreaties and wishes — 
Accept a third friend in your King, Dionysius." 



72 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY 



The forestpines groan — 

The dim clouds are flitting — 

The Maiden is sitting 

On the green shore alone. 

The surges are broken with might, with might, 

And her sighs are pour'd on the desert Night, 

And tears are troubling her eye. 

"All, all is o'er: 

The heart is destroyed — 

The world is a void — 

It can yield me no more. 

Then, Master of Life, take back thy boon : 

I have tasted such bliss as is under the moon : 

I have lived — I have loved — I would die!" 

Thy tears, Forsaken ! 

Are gushing in vain ; 

Thy wail shall not waken 

The Buried again : 

But all that is left for the desolate bosom, 

The flower of whose Love has been blasted in blossom, 

Be granted to thee from on high ! 

Then pour like a river 

Thy tears without number ! 

The Buried can never 

Be wept from their slumber : 

But the luxury dear to the Broken-hearted, 

When the sweet enchantment of Love hath departed, 

Be thine — the tear and the sigh ! 



SCHILLER. V3 



i^^e ITament of €txts. 

Has the beamy Spring shone out anew ? 

Eeassumes the Earth her primal mien? 
Yes, once more the rivulets are blue: 

Yes, once more the sunny hills are green. 
On the mirror-floor of Ocean's wave 

Cloudlessly the face of Phoebus lies ; 
Blandlier the Zephyr-pinions wave ; 

Bud and plantling ope their little eyes. 
Music trills from every grove and glen, 

And I hear the Oread in the grot 
Sing, "Thy flowers, indeed, return agen, 

But thy Daughter, she returneth not!" 

Ah ! how long I wander sadly over. 

Desolately over Earth's bare field ! 
Titan ! Titan ! canst thou not discover 

Where my Loved, my Vanished, lies concealed? 
None of all thy lamps, of all thy rays. 

Lights the dear, dear Countenance for me; 
Even the Day, which all on earth displays, 

Nowhere shows me her I sigh to see. 
Hast thou, Jupiter, from these fond arms 

Pitilessly torn my lovely one ? 
Or has Pluto borne away her cliarms 

To the death cold Flood of Acheron? 

Downwards to the blackly-rolling River 
Who will bear my message-word of woe ? 

Into Charon's bark, wliich floats for ever. 
None save spectral shadows dare to go. 

7 



14 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Hidden from each iiesh-imprisoned soul 

Lies alway the nightbegirdled Shore: 
Long as Styx hath yet been known to roll, 

Shape of Life his waters never bore. 
Thousand headlong pathways hurry thither — 

Back alone to Light is no return ; 
Scarce a sigh comes faintly wafted hither, 

Whispering of her lot for whom I mourn. 

Earthsprnng mothers, of an earthly name, 

Doomed to die because of Pyrrha born. 
Follow joyously through Death and Flame, 

Nurslings from their loving bosoms torn. 
Thus doth reigning Jupiter command — 

"None of Mine shall pass the Phantomportal :" 
Wherefore, Parcie, must your iron hand 

Sternly spare the God and the Immortal ? 
Ah ! down, down into the Night of Nights 

Rather hurl me from Olympus' brow : 
Why revere in me the Goddess^ rights? 

Are they not the Mother's tortures now ? 

Sways my child in joyless pomp beneath 

On the throne, beside her sable Spouse ? 
Gladly, gladly would I plunge in Death, 

There to seek the Queen of Pluto's House. 
Ah ! her eyes, a very Fount of Tears, 

Aching for the goldbright Light in vain, 
Wandering wistfully to far-off Spheres, 

Fain would meet the Mother's glance again. 
Never ! never ! till the Depths rejoice 

In the awakened might of Pity's spell ; 



SCHILLER. Y5 

Never! never! until Mercy's voice 

Echoes through the sunken Dome of Hell. 

Vain, vain wish, and idly-wasted wailing 1 

Ever in the one bright Track away 
Phcebus calmly wheels his never-failing 

Chariot ; Jupiter is Lord for aye ; 
Lord, and Lord of Happiness and Light : 

Darkness flung no shadow on his throne 
When I lost her in the dead of Night, 

When my soul was left to weep alone, 
Till above the black abysmal Well 

Young Aurora's fairy tints shall glow, 
And till Iris gilds the gloom of Hell 

By the glory of her painted Bow. 

And is naught remaining by the Mother? 

No fond pledge of reminiscence here? 
Naught to say the Severed love each other? 

Naught in memory from the Hand so dear? 
Is there, then, no holy link of union 

Found between the Child and Mother more ? 
Hold the Left-iu-Life no sweet communion 

With the wanderers on the Phantorashore ? 
No ! nor sundered for eternal years 

Must we languish — she shall yet be mine : 
Lo ! in pity to the Mother's tears, 

Heaven accords a Symbol and a Sign. 

Soon as Autumn dies, and Winter's blast 

From the North is chillily returning, 
Soon as leaf and flower their hues have cast 

And in nakedness the trees are mourning, 



^6 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then from out Vertuinnus' lavish Horn 

Slowly, silentl}^ the Gift I take 
Overcharged with Life — the golden Corn — 

As mine Offering to the Stygian Lake. 
Into Earth I sink the Seed with sadness, 

And it lies upon my daughter's heart ; 
Thus an emblem of my grief and gladness, 

Of my love and anguish I impart. 

When the handmaid Hours, in circling duty, 

Once again lead round the bowery Spring, 
Then upbounding Life and new-born Beauty 

Unto all that died the Sun shall bring. 
Lo ! the germ that lay from eyes of Mortals 

Longwhile coffined by the Eartli's cold bosom. 
Blushes as it bursts the clayey Portals, 

"With the dyes of Heaven on its blossom. 
"While the stem, ascending, skyward towers, 

Bashfully the fibres shun the Light, 
Thus to rear my tender ones the Powers 

Both of Heaven and Earth in love unite. 

Halfway in the Land where Life rejoices. 

Halfway in the Nightworld of the tomb. 
These to me are blessed Herald-voices, 

Earthward wafted up from Orcus' gloom. 
Yea, though dungeoned in the Hell of Hells, 

"Would I from the deep Abyss infernal 
Hear the silver peal whose music swells 

Gently from these blossoms, young and vernal. 
Singing that where old in rayless blindness 

Darklingly the Mournerphantoras move, 



SCHILLER. 77 

Even tliere are bosoms filled with kindness, 
Even there are hearts alive with love. 

O, m}^ Flowers! that round the mead so sunny, 

Odourloaded, freshly bloom and blow. 
Here I bless you! May redundant honey 

Ever down your chalicepetals flow ! 
Flowers! I'll bathe you in celestial Light, 

Blent with colours from the Rainbow borrowed; 
All your bells shall glisten with the bright 

Hues that play around Aurora's forehead ! 
So, whene'er the days of Springtime roll, 

"When the Autumn pours her yellow treasures, 
May each bleeding heart and loving soul 

Read in you my mingled pains and pleasures! 



And dost thou faithlessly abandon me ? 

Must thy cameleon phantasies depart ? 
Thy griefs, thy gladnesses, take wing and flee 

The bower they builded in this lonely heart? 
O, Summer of Existence, golden, glowing! 

Can nought avail to curb thine onward motion? 
In vain ! The river of my years is flowing. 

And soon shall mingle with the eternal ocean. 

Extinguished in dead darkness lies the sun 

That lighted up my shrivelled world of wonder ; 

Those fairy bands Imagination spun 

Around my heart have long been rent asunder. 



t8 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Gone, gone forever is the fine belief, 
The all-too-generous trust in the Ideal : 

All my Divinities have died of grief. 

And left me wedded to the Rude and Real. 

As clasped the enthusiastic Prince^ of old 

The lovely statue, stricken by its charms, 
Until the marble, late so dead and cold. 

Glowed into throbbing life beneath his arms, 
So fondly round enchanting Nature's form, 

I too entwined my passionate arms, till, pressed 
In my embraces, she began to warm 

And breathe and revel in my bounding breast. 

And, sympathizing with my virgin bliss. 

The speechless things of Earth received a tongue ; 
They gave me back Affection's burning kiss. 

And loved the Melody my bosom sung: 
Then sparkled hues of Life on tree and flower. 

Sweet music from the silver fountain flowed ; 
All soulless images in that brief hour 

The Echo of my Life divinely glowed! 

How struggled all my feelings to extend 

Themselves afar beyond their prisoning bounds! 
O, how I longed to enter Life and blend 

Me with its words and deeds, its shapes and sounds! 
This human theatre, how fair it beamed 

While yet the curtain hung before the scene! 
Uprolled, how little then the arena seemed ! 

That little how contemptible and mean ! 

•I Pygmalion. 



SCHILLER. 79 

How roamed, imparadised in blest illusion, 

With soul to which upsoaring Hope lent pinions, 
And heart as yet unchilled by Care's intrusion, 

How roamed the stripling-lord through his do- 
minions! 
Then Fancy bore him to the palest star 

Pinnacled in the lofty ajther dim : 
Was nought so elevated, nought so far. 

But thither the Enchantress guided him ! 

With what rich reveries his brain was rife! 

What adversary might withstand him long? 
How glanced and danced before the Car of Life 

The visions of his thought, a dazzling throng! 
For there was Fortuxe with her golden crown. 

There flitted Love with heart-bewitching boon, 
There glittered starry-diademed Rexown, 

And Tkuth, with radiance like the sun of noon! 

But ah ! ere half the journey yet was over, 

That gorgeous escort wended separate ways ; 
All faithlessly forsook the pilgrim-rover. 

And one by one evanished from his gaze. 
Away inconstant-handed Foetune flew ; 

And, while the thirst of Knowledge burned alway, 
The dreary mists of Doubt arose and threw 

Their shadow over Truth's resplendent ray. 

I saw the sacred garland-crown of Fame 
Around the common brow its glory shed : 

The rapid Summer died, the Autumn came. 
And Love, with all his necromancies, fled, 



80 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And ever lonelier and silenter 

Grew the dark images of Life's poor dream, 
Till scarcely o'er the dusky scenery there 

The lamp of Hope itself could cast a gleam. 

And now, of all, Who, in my day of dolor, 

Alone survives to clasp my willing hand? 
Who stands beside me still, my best consoler, 

And lights my pathway to the Phantom-strand ? 
Thou, Friendship! stancher of our wounds and 
sorrows, 

From whom this lifelong pilgrimage of pain , 
A balsam for its worst afflictions borrows ; 

Thou whom I early sought, nor sought in vain! 

And thou whose labours by her light are wrought, 

Soother and soberer of the spirit's fever, 
Who, shaping all things, ne'er destroy est aught, 

Calm Occupation ! thou that weariest never ! 
Whose efforts rear at last the mighty Mo'unt 

Of Life, though merely grain on grain they lay, 
And, slowly toiling, from the vast Account 

Of Time strike minutes, days, and years away. 



SCHILLER. 81 



Beloved friends! More glorious times than ours 
Of old existed : men of loftier powers 

Than we can boast have flourished : — who shall doubt it? 
A million stones dug from the depths of Earth 
Will bear this witness for the ancient worth, 
If History's chronicles be mute about it. 

But, all are gone — those richly-gifted souls — 

That constellation of illustrious names : 

For Us, for Us, the current moment rolls, 

And We, We live, and have our claims. 

My friends ! The wanderer tells us — and we own — 
That Earth shows many a more luxuriant zone 

Than that whereunder we sedately live ; 
But, if denied a paradise, our hearts 
Are still the home of science and the arts. 
And glow and gladden in the light they give ; 
And if beneath our skies the laurel pines, 

And winter desolates our myrtle boughs, 
The curling tendrils of our joyous vines 
Shed freshest greenness round our brows. 

May burn more feverish life, more maddening pleasures, 
Where four assembled worlds exchange their treasures. 

At London, in the world's Commercial Hall ; 
A thousand stately vessels come and go. 
And costly sights are there, and pomp and snow. 

And Gold is lord and idolgod of all ! 



82 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

But will the sun be mirrored in the stream 
Sullied and darkened by the flooding rains? 

No ! On the still smooth lake alone his beam 
Is brightly imaged, and remains. 

The beggar at St. Angelo's might gaze 
With scorn upon our North, for he surveys 

The one, lone, only, everliving Rome — 
All shapes of beauty fascinate his eye ; 
He sees a brilliant heaven below the sky 
Shine in Saint Peter's wonder waking dome. 

But, even while beaming with celestial glory, 

Rome is the grave of long-departed years ; 
It is the green young plant and not the hoary 
And time-worn trunk that blooms and cheers. 

Prouder achievements may perchance appear 
Elsewhere than signalize our humble sphere, 

But newer nowhere underneath the sun. 
"We see in pettier outlines on our stage, 
"Which miniatures the world of every age, 
The storied feats of bypassed eras done. 

All things are but redone, reshown, retold, 

Fancy alone is ever young and new ; 
Man and the universe shall both grow old, 
But not the forms her pencil drew ! 



33 



SCHILLER. 83 



OTIjc ilaiir of #rlraits. 

At thee the Mocker^ sneers in cold derision, 
Through thee he seeks to desecrate and dim 

Glory for which he hath no soul or vision, 

For "God" and "Angel" are but sounds with him. 

He makes the jewels of the heart his booty. 

And scoifs at Man's Belief and Woman's Beauty. 

Yet thou — a lowly shepherdess ! — descended 

Not from a kingly but a godly race, 
Art crowned by Poesy ! Amid the splendid 

Of Heaven's high stars she builds thy dwellingplace, 
Garlands thy temples with a wreath of glory, 
And swathes thy memory in eternal Story. 

The Base of this weak world exult at seeing 
The Fair defaced, the Lofty in the dust ; 

Yet grieve not! There are godlike hearts in being 
Which worship still the Beautiful and Just. 

Let Momus and his mummers please the crowd. 

Of nobleness alone a noble mind is proud. 



She could not whisper one least word ; 

Too many listeners hovered nigh ; 
But, though her dear lips never stirred, 

I well could read her speechful eye : 



84 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And now with stealthy step I come 

And seek thy shades, thou darlding grove! 

Here will I build my hermit-home, 
Here veil from prying eyes my love. 

The city's voice of many tones 

Resoundeth in the sweltering Day; 
Wheels roll, as 'twere, o'er muffled stones, 

And fur-off hammers faintly bray : 
So wring the o'er anxious Crowd with toil 

From Earth's hard breast their bitter bread, 
"While blessings flow from Heaven like oil 

On each serene Believer's head! 

Yet, breathe it not, what holy joy, 

"What bhss in Love and Faith may be ; 
The world will mock thee, and destroy 

The inmost Life of Heaven in thee ! 
Not in thy words, not on thy brow, 

Should glow the soul of thy desire ; 
Deep in thy heart's recesses thou 

Must feed, unseen, the Sacred Fire. 

Flee where nor Light nor Man intrudes ! 

Love lives for Night and Silentness ; 
Love's dearest liaunts are Solitudes 

Where sandalled feet fall echoless. 
Love's home is in the Land of Dream, 

For, there, through Truth's eternal power, 
Its life is glassed in every stream. 

And symbolized by every flower ! 



SCHILLER. 85 



m^t moxhs of ^mixt^, 

I NAME you Three Words which ought to resound 

In thunder from zone to zone : 
But the world understands them not — they are found 

In the depths of the heart alone. 
That man must indeed he utterly base 
In whose heart the Three Words no longer find place. 

First, — Man is free, is created free, 

Though born a manacled slave : — 
I abhor the abuses of Liberty — 

I hear how the populace rave, — 
But I never can dread, and I dare not disdain, 
The slave who stands up and shivers his chain ! 

And, — Virtue is not an empty name : — 

'Tis the paction of Man with his soul. 
That, though balked of his worthiest earthly aim, 

He will still seek a heavenly goal ; 
For, that to which worldling natures are blind 
Is a pillar of light for the childlike mind. 

And, — A God, an Immutable Will, exists, 

However Me7i waver and yield : — 
Beyond Space, beyond Time, and their dimming mists, 

The Ancient of Days is revealed ; 
And while Time and the Universe haste to decay, 
Their unchangeable Author is Lord for aye ! 
8 



86 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then, treasure those Words, They ought to resound 

In thunder from zone to zone ; 
But the world will not teach thee their force ; — they are 
found 

In the depths of the heart alone ; 
Thou never, O Man ! canst be utterly base 
While those Three Words in thy heart find place! 



S^Ijc S^orbs of gilusion. 

Three Words are heard with the Good and Blameless, 

Three ruinous words and vain — 
Their sound is hollow — their use is aimless — 

They cannot console and sustain. 
Man"'s path is a path of thorns and troubles 
So long as he chases these vagrant bubbles. 

So long as he hopes that Triumph and Treasure 

Will yet he the guerdon of Worth : — 
Both are dealt out to Baseness in lavishest measure ; 

The Worthy possess not the earth — 
They are exiled spirits and strangers here. 
And look for their home to a purer sphere. 

So long as he dreams that On clay-made creatures 

The noonheams of Truth will shine: — 
No mortal may lift up the veil from her features ; 

On earth we but guess and opine : 
We prison her vainly in pompous words : 
She is not our handmaid — she is the Lord's. 



SCHILLER. 87 

So long as he sighs for a Golden Era, 

When Good will le victress o''er III: 
The triumph of Good is an idiot's chimera; 

She never can combat — nor will : 
The Foe must contend and o'ermaster, till, cloyed 
By destruction, he perishes, self-destroyed. 

Then, Man! through Life's labyrinths winding and 
darkened. 
Take, dare to take. Faith as thy clue ! 
That which eye never saw, to which ear never 
hearkened, 
That, that is the Beauteous and True ! 
It is not without — let the fool seek it there — 
It is in thine own bosom and heart — the Perfect, the 
Good, and the Fair!' 



^\t Course of Wmt. 

Time is threefold — triple — three: 

First — and Midst — and Last ; 
Was — and Is — and Yet-To-Be ; — 

Future — Present — Past. 

Lightning-swift, the Is is gone — 

The Yet-To-Be crawls with a snakelike slowness on 

Still stands the Was for aye — its goal is won. 



1 The classical reader need hardly be informed that the epithets in this line are 
from Plato. 



88 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

No fierce impatience, no entreating, 
Can spur or wing the tardy Tarrier ; 
No strength, no skill, can rear a barrier 
Between Departure and the Fleeting: 
No prayers, no tears, no magic spell, 
Can ever move the Immovable. 

"Wouldst thou, fortunate and sage, 
Terminate Life's Pilgrimage? 
Wouldst thou quit this mundane stage 
Better, happier, worthier, wiser? 
Then, whate'er thine aim and end, 
Take^ Youth I for thine adviser, 

Not thy working-mate^ The Slow ; 
Oh, maJce not The Vanishing thy friend, 

Or The Permanent thy foe ! 



Gentet there be who don't figure in History ; 

Yet they are clever, too — deucedly ! — 
All that is puzzling, all tissues of mystery, 
They will unravel you lucidly. 
Hear their oracular dicta but thrown out. 
You'd fancy those Wise Men of Gotham must find the 
Philosophers' Stone out ! 

Yet they quit Earth without signal and voicelessly ; 

All their existence was vanity. 
He seldom speaks — he deports himself noiselessly 

Who would enlighten Humanity : 



SCHILLER. 89 

Lone, unbeheld, he by slow but incessant 
Exertion extracts for the Future the pith of the Past and 
the Present. 

Look at yon tree, spreading like a pavilion ! See 

How it shines, shadows, and flourishes ! 
Not in its leaves, though all odour and brilliancy, 
Seek we the sweet fruit that nourishes. 
No ! a dark prison incloses the kernel 
Whence shoots with round bole and broad boughs the 
green giant whose youth looks eternal ! 



3W aiib mmmt^. 

The Noblehearted sees in Earth 

A paradise before his eyes ; 
The dreams to which his soul gives birth 

He fondly hopes to realize; 
He dedicates his burning youth 
To glorify the majesty of Truth. 

But ah ! before he gazes long, 

So mean, so paltry all appears, 
Self soon becomes, amid the throng, 

The loadstar of his hopes and fears, 
Enthusiastic feehng flies. 
And Love is chill'd, and droops his wings, and dies. 

Truth's beams are pure, but, like the moon's, 

They warm not with the light they shed : 

8* 



90 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Where Knowledge is, her brightest boons 

Ilhirnine less the heart than head. 
Blest, therefore, they who best ally 
The Visionary's hope and Worldling's eye ! 



STIjccIa: gi Worn front lljc Wioxlis of Spirits. 

" Wheee I am, and Whitherward I fleeted, 
When my spirit was from Earth removed ?" 

Wherefore ask me? Is not all completed ? 
I have lived, lived long, for I have loved ! 

Tell me where the nightingale reposes 
Which with soulful music fugitive 

Charmed thy dolour in the Days of Roses ! 
When she ceased to love she ceased to live. 

" Have I found anew the dear Departed ?" . 

Oh, believe rae, I am blent with him, 
There, where Peace unites the Faithfulhearted, 

Where no sorrow makes the bright eye dim. 

There thou too, if meek in mind and lowly, 
Mayest behold us when thy N'ight is o'er, 

There embrace our father,^ healed and holy. 
Whom the bloody steel can reach no more. 

There he sees how truthful were the feelings 
Born of gazing on yon starry sphere :' 

1 Wallenstein. 2 An allusion to Wallenstein's astrological studies. 



SCHILLER. 91 

Blest are they who cherish such revealuigs ! 
Unto them the Holy One is near, 

Far above the sapphire spaces yonder 
Souls achieve what Men in vain essay — 

Therefore venture thou to dream and wander — 
Mysteries often lurk in childish play. 



fope. 

The Future is Man's immemorial hymn : 
In vain runs the Present a-wastiug; 

To a golden goal in the distance dim 
In life, in death, he is hasting. 

The world grows, old, and young, and old, 

But the ancient story still bears to be told. 

Hope smiles on the Boy from the hour of his birth : 
To the Youth it gives bliss without limit; 

It gleams for Old Age as a star on earth. 
And the darkness of Death cannot dim it. 

Its rays will gild even fathomless gloom. 

When the Pilgrim of Life lies down in the tomb. 

Never deem it a Shibboleth phrase of the crowd, 
Never call it the dream of a rhymer ; 

The instinct of Nature proclaims it aloud — 
We are destined for something sublimer. 

Tins truth, which the Witness within reveals, 

The purest worshipper deepliest feels. 



GERMAN ANTHOLOGY, 



LTJDWIG UHLAND. 



With a wondrous host, serene and bold, 

I tarried as a boarder lately ; 
His sign was an Apple of the brilliantest gold. 

At the which men marvelled greatly. 

It was under the boughs of the goodly Apple-tree, 
Which from time immemorial has flourished. 

That I gathered yellow honey like the blithe summer-bee, 
And was tenderly warmed and nourished. 

Through the day, my hours, however they might pass, 

Ever flitted, like butterflies, lightly ; 
And I slept upon soft luxuriant grass 

In a roomy summer-house nightly. 

There came to the bowery Elysium of mine host 

So many a wildwood ranger ! 
And he laughed as they banqueted by millions at his cost, 

For he never saw the face of a stranger. 

After months I asked him how much was to pay, 

But he said he was no attorney ; 
All benisons be therefore on his head I pray, 

While the green Earth goes her journey ! 

1 This is an allegorical poem on the Sun. 



UHLAND. 93 



€\t 'gobt-ViVim, 

Fare thee well, fare thee well, my dove I 

Thou and I must sever ; 
One fond kiss, one fond kiss of love, 

Ere we part forever ! 

And one rose, one red rose, Marie, 
Choose me from the bowers ; 

But no fruit, oh ! no fruit for me, 
Nought but fragile flowers. 



|cljal)0^! tlje ^lorg Ijas btpartcb. 

I RIDE through a dark, dark Land by night. 
Where moon is none and no stars lend light, 

And rueful winds are blowing ; 
Yet oft have I trodden this way ere now. 
With summer zephyrs a-fanning my brow. 

And the gold of the sunshine glowing. 

I roam by a gloomy Garden-wall ; 

The deathstricken leaves around me fall ; 

And the night-blast wails its dolours ; 
How oft with my love I have hitherward strayed 
When the roses flowered, and all I surveyed 

Was radiant with Hope's own cohmrs! 



94 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

But the gold of the sunshine is shed and gone, 
And the once bright roses are dead and wan, 

And my love in her low grave moulders, 
And I ride through a dark, dark Land by night, 
With never a star to bless me with light, 

And the Mantle of Age on my shoulders. 



spirits €bergfoljere. 

A MANY a summer is dead and buried 
Since over this flood I last was ferried ; 
And then, as now, the Noon lay bright 
On strand, and water, and castled height. 

Beside me then in this bark sat nearest 
Two companions the best and dearest ; 
One was a gentle and thoughtful sire. 
The other a youth with a soul of fire. 

One, outworn by Care and Illness, 
Sought the grave of the Just in stillness ; 
The other's shroud was the bloody rain 
And thunder-smoke of the battle plain. 

Yet still, when Memory's necromancy 
Robes the Past in the hues of Fancy, 
Medreameth I hear and see the Twain 
With talk and smiles at my side again! 



UHLAND. 95 

Even the grave is a bond of union ; 
Spirit and spirit best hold communion! 
Seen through Faith, by the Inward Eye, 
It is after Life they are truly nigh ! 

Then, ferryman, take this coin, I pray thee, 
Thrice thy fare I cheerfully pay thee ; 
For, though thou seest them not, there stand 
Anear me Two from the Phantomland ! 



spring |[o5ts. 

Geeen-leafy Whitsuntide was come, 
To gladden many a Christian home: — 

Spake then King Engelbert, — " A fitter 
Time than this we scarce shall see 
For tournament and revelrie : 

Ho ! to horse, each valiant Ritter !" 

Gay banners wave above the walls, — 
The herald's trumpet loudly calls, 

And beauteous eyes rain radiant glances I 
And of all the knights can none 
Match the Monarch's gallant son. 

In the headlong shock of lances ! 

Till, at the close, a Stranger came, — 
Japan-black iron cased his frame ; 



96 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

In his air was somewhat kingly : 
"Well I guess, that stalwart knight 
Yet will overcome in fight 

All the hosts of Europe singly. 

As he flings his gage to earth 
You hear no more the sound of mirth, — 
All shrink back, as dreading danger: 
The Prince alone defies the worst — 
Alas! in vain! He falls, unhorsed: 



Boots now no longer steed or lance : 

"Light up the hall! — a dance! — a dance!" 
Anon a dazzling throng assembles; 

And then and there that Dark Unscanned 

Asks the Royal Maiden's hand, 
Whilk she gives, albeit it trembles. 

And as they dance — the Dark and Fair — 

In the Maiden's breast and hair 
Every golden clasp uncloses. 

And, to and fro — that way and this — 

Drops dimmed each pearl and amethyss — 
Drop dead the shrivelled yellow roses. 

But who makes merriest at the feast ? 

Not he who furnished it at least I 
Sad is he for son and daughter ! 

Fears that reason cannot bind 

Chase each Qther through his mind, 
Swift :iM<l (lark as midnight water I 



UHLAND. 97 

So pale both youth and maiden were ! 

"Whereon the Guest, affecting care, 
Spake, " Blushful wine will mend your colour," 

Filled he then a beaker up. 

And they — they drank ; but oh ! that cup 
Proved in sooth a draught of dolour ! 

Their eyelids droop, and neither speaks ; 

They kiss their father ; and their cheeks, 
Pale before, wax white and shrunken : 

Momently their death draws nigher, 

He, the while, their wretched sire, 
Gazing on them, terror-drunken ! 

" Spare these ! Take me/" he shrieked, and pressed 

The stone-cold corpses to his breast f 
When, to that heart-smitten father 

Spake the Guest, with iron voice, 

" Autumn-spoils are not ray choice ; 
Roses in the Spring I gather !" 



C^e Itfotller's gaug^ter. 

The Jeweller's Daughter sat in her father's booth — 
Gems, gold, and diamonds dazzled around : 
" But the richest treasure I ever found," 
He lovingly whispered in her ear, 
" O Helen, was and is, in sooth. 

Thyself, my daughter dear !" 



98 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Thereon stepped into the Jeweller's booth a Knight, 
A Knight of stately apparel and air — 
" I greet thee, maiden young and fair ! 
I greet thee, Jeweller, courteouslie! 
And make me a coronal rich and bright 
For my bride that is to be." 

Eftsoons, I ween, the glittering. pearls were strung — 
Was never beheld a brillianter show ! 
Poor Helen ! she saw it, and sighed as though 
Her youth and beauty had lost their charm ; 
Alas, poor Helen ! she sighed as she hung 
The ornament on her arm. 

Ah! blest is the bride — supremely blest!" she said, 
"Who, bright as a star, in the nuptial hall, 
Shall Avear this beautiful coronall ! 
Ah ! would the Ritter but offer to me 
A chaplet only of roses red. 

How joyful I should be !" 

Ere long came into the booth again the Knight — 
" Thanks, worthy friend ! — thy pearls outshine 
The sparkling droplets of the mine: 
Now make me, Jeweller, speedilie, 
A ring, ingemmed with a chrysolite. 
For my bride that is to be !" 

Eftsoons was ready that gay gold ring, I ween, 
And mildly shimmered its paler stone. 
Alas, poor Helen ! Left all alone. 
She sighed anew as she tried the ring 
On her own fair finger, where its sheen 
In truth was a beauteous thing ! 



UHLAND. 99 

Ah ! blest, she thought, how blest as a happy bride, 
How doubly blest as a happy wife, 
Is she who shall Avear this ring for life! 
Ah! would the Ritter but give to me 
A lock of his hair and nought beside, 
How joyful I should be I 

Ere long the Knight appeared in the booth once more — 
" O Jeweller! words are poor to praise 
The taste and finish thy work displays; 
A ring and a chaplet bright as these 
Might lie on the loftiest shrine before 

Which Love ever bent his knees ! 

" But as I would fain behold them dazzle and glow 
From Beauty's finger and Beauty's brow. 
Come hither, enchanting damsel, thou ! 
And let me try them first on thee ; 
So will they become my bride, I trow. 
For thou art fair as she! 

Now this, it chanced, was all on a Sunday morn ; 
And Helen, to meetly honour the day, 
Had dressed herself in the prettiest wa}^, 
In the holiday garb of the burgher class, 
The silken suit she had always worn, 
When going, as now, to Mass. 

There, then, she stands in that graceful silken dress, 
Deep blushes dyeing her face and neck : 
Meanwhile, the Ritter proceeds to deck 
With the Avreath of pearls her flowing hair, 
And draws, unheeding her bashfulness, 
The ring on her finger fair. 



100 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then, taking her hand in his he tenderly said, 
" Helena dear, Helena sweet, 
Forgive, I pray, this little deceit ; 
My heart has ever been thine alone. 
And thou art the bride I hope to wed, 

And the wreath and the ring are thine own ! 

" 'Mid gold and gems, and all that's precious and rare, 
The opal's hues and the ruby's blaze. 
Thy lot has been cast from Childhood's days — 
To thee be this a symbol and sign 
That thou wert born to shine elsewhere — 
Wert born to charm and shine!" 



" Sawest thou the castle that beetles over 

The wine-dark sea? 
The rosy sunset clouds do hover 

Above it so goldenly ! 

"It hath a leaning as though it would bend to 

The waves below ; 
It hath a longing as though to ascend to 

The skies in their gorgeous glow." — 

" — Well saw I the castle that beetles over 

The wine-dark sea; 
And a pall of watery clouds did cover 

Its battlements gloomsomely." — 



UHLAND. 101 

" — The winds and the moonlit waves were singing 

A choral song ? 
And the brilliant castle-hall was ringing 

With melody all night long?" — 

" — The winds and the moonless waves were sleeping 

In stillness all ; 
But many voices of woe and weeping 

Rose out from the castle-hall." — 

— " And sawest thou not step forth so lightly 

The King and the Queen, 
Their festal dresses bespangled brightly, 

Their crowns of a dazzling sheen? 

" And by their side a resplendent vision, 

A virgin fair, 
The glorious child of some clime elysian, 

With starry gems in her hair?" — 

" — Well saw I the twain by the wine-dark water 

Walk slower and slower ; 
They were clad in weeds, and their virgin daughter 

Was found at their side no more!" 
9* 



102 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



Juraitb 0f ^lonbeit. 

Tow'rds the lofty walls of Balbi, lo ! Durand of Blonden 

hies ; 
Thousand songs are in his bosom ; Love and Pleasure 

light his eyes. 
There, he dreams, his own true maiden, beauteous as the 

evening-star, 
Leaning o'er her turret-lattice, waits to hear her knight's 

guitar. 

In the lindenshaded courtyard soon Durand begins his 

lay. 
But his eyes glance vainly upwards ; there they meet no 

answering ray. 
Flowers are blooming in the lattice, rich of odour, fair to 

see. 
But the fairest flovper of an}^. Lady Blanca, where is she? 

Ah ! while yet he chants the ditty, draws a mourner near 
and speaks — 

'^She is dead, is dead forever, whom Durand of Blonden 
seeks!" 

And the knight replies not, breathes not : darkness gath- 
ers round his brain : 

He is dead, is dead forever, and the mourners weep the 
tAvain. 

In the darkened castle-chapel burn a many tapers bright : 
There the lifeless maiden lies, with whitest wreaths and 
ribands dight. 



103 



There . . . Bat lo ! a mighty marvel ! She hath oped her 

eyes of hlae ! 
All are lost in joy and wonder! Lady Blanca lives anew ! 

Dreams and visions flit before her, as she asks of those 
anear, 

"Heard I not my lover singing? — Is Durand of Blonden 
here?" 

Yes, O Lady, thou hast heard him ; he has died for thy 
dear sake ! 

He could wake his tranced mistress : him shall none for- 
ever wake ! 

He is in a realm of glory, but as yet he weets not where ; 
He but seeks the Lady Blanca: dwells she not already 

there ? 
Till he finds her must he wander to and fro, as one be- 

reaven. 
Ever calling, "Blanca! Blanca!" through the desert 

halls of Heaven. 



Jorfoarb. 

Forward ! Onward ! — far and forth ! 
An earthquake shout upwakes the North ! 
Forward ! 

Prussia hears that shout so proud, 
She hears and echoes it aloud. 
Forward ! 



104 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Ancient Austria ! Nurse of Mind! 
Sublime land, lag not thou behind ! 
Forward ! 

Warriors of the Saxon land, 
Arouse I arise ! — press hand in hand 
Forward ! 

Swabia ! Brunswick ! Pomeraine ! — 
Wild Yagers from the Meuse and Main ! 
Forward ! 

Holland ! — thou hast heard the word. 
Up ! Thou too hast a soul and sword ! 
Forward ! 

Switzerland — thou Ever-free ! 
Lorraine, Alsatia, Burgundy ! 
Forward ! 

Albion! Spain! A common cause 
Is yours — your liberties and laws ! 
Forward ! 

Onward! Forward! — each and all! 
Hark, hark to Freedom's thundercall ! 
Forward ! 

Forward ! Onward ! — far and forth ! 
And prove what gallant hearts are worth ! 
Forward ! 



105 



LUDWIG TIEK. 



fife is ifee §tmt nnH i^t ^olilok. 

Whence this fever? 
"Whence this burning 
Love and Longing ? 
Ah! forever, 
Ever turning, 
Ever thronging 
Tow'rds the Distance, 
Koams each fonder 
Yearning yonder, 
There, where wander 
Golden stars in blest existence ! 

Thence what fragrant 
Airs are blowing! 
What rich vagrant 
Music flowing! 
Angel voices 
Tones wherein the 
Heart rejoices. 
Call from thence from Earth to win thee ! 



106 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

How yearns and burns for evermore 
My heart for thee, thou blessed shore ! 
And shall I never see thy fairy 

Bowers and palace-gardens near ? 
Will no enchanted skitf so airy, 

Sail from thee to seek me here ? 
! undeveloped Land, 

Whereto I fain would flee. 
What mighty hand shall break each band 

That keeps my soul from thee ? 
In vain I pine and sigh 

To trace thy dells and streams: 
They gleam but by the spectral sky 
That lights my shifting dreams. 
Ah ! what fair form, flitting through yon green glades, 

Dazes mine eye? Spirit, oh ! rive my chain ! 
Woe is my soul ! Swiftly the vision fades. 
And I start up — waking — to weep in vain ! 

Hence this fever ; 
Hence this burning 
Love and Longing : 
Hence forever, 
Ever turning. 
Ever thronging, 
Tow'rds the Distance, 
Roams each fonder 
Yearning yonder, 
There, where wander 
Golden stars in blest existence ! 



TIEK. 107 



gititttntiT ^0ng.^ 

A LITTLE bird flew through the dell, 

And where the failing sunbeams fell 

He warbled thus his wondrous lay. 

" Adieu ! adieu ! I go away : 

Far, far, 

Must I voyage ere the twilight star !" 

It pierced me through, the song he sang, 
With many a sweet and bitter pang : 
For wounding joy, delicious pain. 
My bosom swelled and sank again. 
Heart! heart! 
Is it drunk with bhss or woe thou art? 

Then, when I saw the drifted leaves, 

I said, "Already Autumn grieves! 

To sunnier skies the swallow hies : 

So Love departs and Longing flies, 

Far, far. 

Where the Radiant and the Beauteous are." 

But soon the Sun shone out anew. 
And back the little flutterer flew : 

1 It was the Translator's custom to alter sometimes the titles selected by the 
Authors themselves. Generally the present Editor does not interfeje with this: 
but in the present case the name prefixed by Mangan was evidently a mistake. In 
the original it is simply " Herbstlied." 



108 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

He saw my grief, he saw my tears, 

And sang, " Love knows no Winter years ! 

No! no! 

"While it hves its breath is Summer's glow!" 



Oh, cherish Pleasure ! 

To him alone 
'Tis given to measure 

Time's jewelled zone. 

As over meadows 
Cloud-masses throng, 

So sweep the Shadows 
Of Earth along. 

The years are hasting 
To swift decay ; 

Life's lamp is wasting 
By day and day. 

Yet cherish Pleasure ! 

To him alone 
'Tis given to measure 

Time's jewelled zone. 



TIER. 109 



For him the hours are 
Enamelled years ; 

His laughing flowers are 
Undulled by tears. 

With him the starry 

And regal wine 
Best loves to tarry 

Where sun-rays shine. 

And when Night closes 

Around his sky, 
In graves of roses 

His Buried he. 

Then cherish Pleasure ! 

To him alone 
'Tis given to measure 

Time's jewelled zone. 



The gayest lot beneath 

By Grief is shaded : 
Pale Evening sees the wreath 

Of Morning faded. 

Pain slays, or Pleasure cloys ; 
All mortal morrows 
10 



110 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

But waken hollow joys 
Or lasting sorrows. 

Hope yesternoon was bright — 
Earth beamed with beauty ; 

But soon came conquering Kight 
And claimed his booty. 

Life's billows, as they roll, 
"Would fain look sunward ; 

But ever must the soul 
Drift darkly onward. 

The sun forsakes the sky. 
Sad stars are sovereigns, 

Long shadows mount on high 
And Darkness governs. 

So Love deserts his throne, 
Weary of reigning! 

Ah ! would he but rule on 
Young and unwaning! 

Pain slays, or Pleasure cloys, 
And all our morrows 

But waken hollow joys 
Or lasting sorrows. 



KERNE K. Ill 



JUSTINUS KEENER. 



Deied, as 'twere, to skeleton chips, 
In the Madhouse found I Four : 

From their white and shrivelled lips 
Cometh language never more. 

Ghastly, stony, stiff, each brother 

Gazes vacant on the other ; 

Till the midnight hour be come ; 

Bristles then erect their hair, 
And the lips all day so dumb 

Utter slowly to the air, 
'■'•Dies irce^ dies illa^ 
Sol vet seclum in favillay 

Four bold brothers once were these. 

Riotous and reprobate, 
Whose rakehellish revelries 

Terrified the more sedate. 
Ghostly guide and good adviser 
Tried in vain to make them wiser. 

On his deathbed spake their sire — 
" Hear your father from his tomb ! 



112 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Rouse not God's eternal ire ; 

Ponder well the day of doom, 
' Dies irce^ dies illa^ 
Solvet seclum in /avilla.^ " 

So spake he, and died : the Four 
All unmoved beheld him die. 

Happy he ! — his labors o'er, 
He was ta'en to bliss on high, 

While his sons, like very devils 

Loosed from Hell, pursued their revels. 

Still they courted each excess 
Atheism and Vice could dare ; 

Ironhearted, feelingless, 

Not a hair of theirs grew grayer. 

"Live," they cried, "while life enables! 

God and devil alike are fables !" 

Once at midnight as the Four 

Riotously reeled along. 
From an open temple-door 

Streamed a flood of holy song. 
"Cease, ye hounds, your yelling noises!" 
Cried the devil by their voices. 

Through the temple vast and dim 
Goes the unhallowed greeting, while 

Still the singers chant their hymn. 
Hark I it echoes down the aisle — 

" Dies irce^ dies illa^ 

Solvet seclum in/avilla.'''' 



KEENER. 113 

On the instant stricken as 

By the wrath of God they stand, 
Each dull eyeball fixed like glass, 

Mute each eye, unnerved each hand, 
Blanched their hair and wan their features. 
Speechless, mindless, idiot creatures! 

And now, dried to skeleton chips, 

In the Mad-cell sit the Four, 
Moveless : — from their blasted lips 

Cometh language never more. 
Ghastly, stony, stiff, each brother 
Gazes vacant on the other ; 

Till the midnight hour be come ; 

Bristles then erect their hair. 
And their lips, all day so dumb, 

Utter slowly to the air, 
'"''Dies irce^ dies ilia, 
Solvet seclum in favillay 



Graf Txjrneck, after a toilsome ride 
By night, in a chapel desired to bide. 

The chapel stood in a greenwood deep : 
In this, thought the Graf, may I safely sleep. 
10* 



114 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

There lay in the vault of the chapel narrow 
A king who had died of a poisoned arrow. 

The Grraf he sprung from his horse on the plain, 
And he said, " Graze here till I come again." 

The portal oped with a gnarring sound ; 
Deep stillness reigned in the vault around. 

The Graf in a niche of the aged wall 
Discovered a coffin and crumbling pall. 

" Plere by the Dead may the Living be borne ; 
I rest on tliis coffin till dawn of morn." 

The Graf lay down, a stranger to fear. 

On the mouldering planks of the royal bier. 

The sun came over the mountains red ; 
The Graf came never — the Graf was dead. 

Three hundred years have rolled and more, 
And the steed still tarries before the door. 

The chapel is hasting to swift decay. 

But the steed grazes yet in the moon's blue ray, 



S^^e §mhn iljat fabes not 

'' Wheee dost thou idly wander ! 
What doest thou moping yonder; 
Leave those bald peaks and join thy friends below I 



115 



Thy garden-bowers look chilly : 
Rose, hyacinth, nor lil}^. 
Can bud where mists are thick and bleak winds blow. 

" The valley-gardens flourish : 

Rich rains and sunbeams nourish 
The laughing children of the meads and dells. 

Each bud outblooras the other ; 

And sister-flower and brother 
Tinkle in Zephyr's ear their sweetest bells. 

" But on the mountains wither 

All flowers thou takest thither : 
Lifeless they lie, and will revive no more. 

Doth not their fate dismay thee ! 

Come down, come down, I pray thee, 
And leave the wreck thou vainly raournest o'er !" 

The gardener heard, unheeding, 

The valley-tenant pleading ; 
Spell-fettered, as in some dim dream he stood, 

Until the gold and dun light 

Which tracks the waning sunlight 
Shed o'er the floor of Jleaven its gorgeous flood. 

And, as the shades descended, 

And Day and Dusk were blended. 
And Fancy shaped wild wonders in the sky. 

And each cloud-woven streamer 

Fk)ated aloft, the dreamer 
Gazed on the firraanent with tranced eye. 



116 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" There^ earth-enamored stranger," 

He cried, "thy mountain-ranger 
His garden only glories to behold ! 

Appear these bowers so chilly ? 

Can hyacinth nor lily 
Spring up in yon full fields of blue and gold? 

" These be the bowers my spirit 

Shall one bright day inherit ; 
There stands for me an undecaying dome. 

Seest not its pillars gleaming? 

Seest not its pennons streaming? 
Go, grovel in thy vale ! 1 know my home !" 



Hark ! through the midnight lonely 
How tolls the convent-bell ! 
But ah ! no summer-breeze awakes the sound ; 
The beating of the heavy hammer only 
Is author of the melancholy knell 

That startles the dull ear for miles around. 

How such a bell resembles 
The drooping poet's heart ! 

Thereon must Misery's hammer drearily jar, 
Ere the deep melody that shrinks and trembles 
Within its d?edal chambers can impart 
Its tale unto the listless world afar. 



KEBNER. 117 

And, woe is me ! too often 
Hath such a bell alone, 

At such an hour, with such disastrous tongue, 
Power to disarm the heart's despair, and soften 
Its cliords to music ; even as now its tone 
Inspires me with the lay I thus have sung. 



ST^e ^aubn-jer's Cljant. 

May sparkle for others 

Henceforward this wine ! 
Adieu, beloved brothers 

And sisters of mine. 
My boyhood's green valleys, 

My fathers' grey halls ! 
Where Liberty rallies 

My destiny calls. 

The sun never stands, 

Never slackens his motion; 
He travels all lands 

Till he sinks in the ocean; 
The stars cannot rest ; 

The wild winds have no pillow, 
And the shore from its breast 

Ever flings the blue billow. 

So Man in the harness 

Of Fortune must roam, 
And far in the Farness 

Look out for his home ; 



118 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Unresting and errant, 

West, East, South, and North, 

The liker his parent. 
The weariless Earth ! 

Though he hears not the words of 

The language he loves. 
He kens the blithe birds of 

His Fatherland's groves : 
Old voices are singing 

From river and rill. 
And flowrets are springing 

To welcome hiin still. 

And Beautj^'s dear tresses 

Are lovely to view, 
And Friendship still blesses 

The soul of the True: 
And love, too, so garlands 

The wanderer's dome 
That the farthest of far lands 

To him is a home. 



i^lje l^ott's CoiTSolatioir. 

"What, though no maiden's tears ever be shed 

O'er my clay bed, 
Yet will the generous ISTight never refuse 

To weep its dews. 



119 



And though no friendly hand garland the cross 

Above my moss, 
Still will the dear, dear moon tenderly j^hine 

Down on that sign. 

And if the saunterer-by souglessly pass 

Through the long grass, 
There will the noontide bee pleasantly hum, 

And warm winds come. 

Yes — you at least, ye dells, meadows, and streams, 

Stars and moon-beams. 
Will think on him whose weak meritless lays 

Teemed with your praise. 



Jome-skkness. 

There calleth me ever a marvellous Horn, 

" Come away ! Come away !" 
Is it earthly music faring astray, 

Or is it air-born ? 
Oh, whether it be a spirit-wile 

Or a forest voice, 
It biddeth mine ailing heart rejoice, 

Yet sorrow the while ! 

In the greenwood glades — o'er the garlanded bowl- 
Night, N'oontide, and Morn, 

The summoning call of that marvellous Horn 
Tones home to my soul ! 



I'^O GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

In vaiu have I sought for it east and west, 

But I darkly feel 
That so soon as its music shall cease to peal 

I go to my rest ! 



^a tlje §\pst-$mt$s of '^xthoxst, as sl^e lag oit Ijtr 
§tatlj-beb. 

Yet lingerest thou! — but I have ceased repining; 
Through thy long nights I see God's brightness shining ; 
For, though our Sceneworld vanish from thy sight, 
Within thee radiates more than starry light ! 

To thee have been revealed — bared for thy seeing — 
The Inner Life, — the Mystery of Being — 
Heaven, Hades, Hell, — the eternal How and Where — 
The glory of the Dead — and their despair! 

Tears darkened long thy bodily vision nightly, 
Yet then, even then, the Interior Eye saw brightly. 
Saw, too, how Truth itself spake by His voice 
Who bade men weep, that so they might rejoice! 

Well hast thou borne thy Cross, hke Him, thy Master, 
Though griefs, like snares, waylayed thee fast and faster 
While that hard-minded world which knew thee not 
Found only food for mockery in thy lot! 

And now, rejoice, thou Faithfullest and Meekest! 
It lies in sight, the Quiet Home thou seekest; 
And gently wilt thou pass to it, for thou 
Art all but disembodied even now! 



KERNER. 12] 



^0 tljit §\p$t-snxtBB of ^rtkrsl, after )^tx Jeaase. 

Farewell! — the All I owe to thee 
This breast enshrined shall ever keep : 

Mine inner sense iipwakes to see 

The Ghostworld's clear and wondrous Deep. 

Where'er thy home — in Light or Shade — 

A spirit still thou wert and art : 
Oh ! if my faith shall fail or fade, 

Send thou a sign to cheer my heart! 

And, since thou soon shalt share the power 

Of purer spirits, blessed, bright. 
Sustain me in that fateful hour 

When death shall rob mine eyes of light! 

Above thy grave-mound blooms and blows 
Of all dear flowers the dearest one, 

Mute witness of the Saviour's woes, 
Thine own beloved Hypericon/ 

And that lone-flower, blood-hued at heart, 
And gold without, from every leaf 

Shall nightly to my soul impart 
The memory of thy faith and grief. 

•Farewell! — the world may mock, may rave; 

Me little move its words or ways ; 
Men's idle scorn he well can brave 

Who never wooed their idler praise. 

• Hypericum perforatum. 



122 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



Slowly through the tomb-still streets I go : — 
Morn is dark, save one swart streak of gold — 

Sullen tolls the far-off river's flow, 
And the moon is very thin and cold. 

Long and long before the house I stand 

Where sleeps she, the dear, dear one I love — 

All undreaming that I leave my land, 

Mute and mourning, like the moon above ! 

"Wishfully I stretch abroad mine arms 

Towards the well-remembered casement-cell — 

Tare thee well ! Farewell thy virgin charms ! 
And thou stilly, stilly house, farewell ! 

And farewell the dear dusk little room, 

Redolent of roses as a dell. 
And the lattice that relieved its gloom — 

And its pictured lilac walls, farewell ! 

Forth upon my path ! I must not wait — 
Bitter blows the fretful morning wind : 

Warden, wilt thou softly close the gate 

When thou knowest I leave my heart behind ? 



KEENER. 123 



ON THE LAST YOLTTME OF HIS POEMS. 

As a headlong stream that Winter had bound, 
When Spring reshowers her beams on the plains 

Breaks loose with a fierce impatient sound 
From its icy chains: 

As a tree, despoiled by the axe of the North 
Of its leaves of green and fruits of gold, 

New leaves, new fruits, afresh puts forth, 
As bright as the old : 

As riotous wine, whose fiery strength 
By the walls of the flask was prisoned long, 

Outgushes in purple pride at length, 
A bubbling song ! 

As the pealing of some vast organ floats 
On the air to the ear of him who has heard 

In many long days but the piping notes 
Of the coppice-bird : 

So rushes, O TJhland ! — so streams and rolls 
The flood of thy song — a flood of fire ! 

So thrills through the depths of all hearts and souls 
The might of thy lyre ! 



124 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



got nt fome. 



" One grand cause of this uneasiness is, that Man is not at home." — Godwin, 
Thoughts on Man. 

My spirit, alas, knoweth no rest! 
I lay under Heaven's blue dome, 

One day, in the summer beam. 
By the Mummel-zee in the forest, 

And dreamed a dream 
Of my Home — 

My Home, the Home of my Father ! 
Shone glory within and without; 

Shone bright in its garden bowers 
Such fruits as the Angels gather, 

And gold-hued flowers 
All about ! 

Alas! the illusion soon vanished. 

I awoke. There were clouds in the sky. 

My tears began to flow. 
My quiet of soul was banished ; 

I felt as though 
I could die ! 

And still with a heart ever swelling 
"With yearnings, — and still with years 

Overdarked by a desolate lot, 
I seek for my Father's Dwelling, 

And see it not 
For my tears ! 



BUERGER. 125 



GOTTFRIED AUGUSTUS BUERGER. 



A BALLAD, 



Upstarting with the dawning red, 

Rose Leonore from dreams of ill. 
"Ob, Wilhelm! art thon false, or dead? 

How long, how loDg, wilt loiter still?" — 
The youth had gone to Prague to yield 
King Frederick aid in battle-field, 
iN'or word nor friend liad come to tell 
If he were still alive and well. 

War's trumpet blew its dying blast. 

And o'er the empress and the king 
Long-wished, long looked-for Peace at last 

Came hovering upon angel-wing. 
And all the hosts, with glittering sheen, 
And kettledrum and tambourine, 
And decked with garlands green and gay, 
Marched, merrily, for home away. 

And on the highways, paths, and byways. 

Came clustering, mustering, crowds and groupes 

Of old and young, from far and nigli-ways, 

And met with smiles the noble troops. 

11* 



126 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" Thank God !" the son and mother cried — 
And " Welcome!" man}" a joyous bride: 
But none throughout that happy meeting 
Hailed Leonore with kiss or greeting. 

She wandered hither, hurried thither; 

She called aloud upon her Lost, 
But none knew aught of him she sought, 

Of all that far-extending host. 
When all was vain, for sheer despair 
She madly tore her night-black hair, 
And dashed herself against the stones, 
And raved and wept with bitter groans. 



Then came her mother hurriedly — 

" Oh, God of Mercy ! — what alarms 
My darling child ? What troubles thee ?"- 

And locked her fondly in her arms. 
" Oh, mother, mother ! dead is dead ! 
My days are sped, my hopes are fled : 
Heaven has no pity on me — none — 
Oh, woe is me! oh, wretched one!" 

" Alas 1 alas ! Child, place thy trust 
In God, and raise thy heart above : 

What God ordains is right and just, 
He is a God of tender love," — 

Oh ! mother, mother ! false and vain, 

For God has wrought me only pain ! 

I will not pray — my plaint and prayer 

Are wasted on the idle air!" 



BUERGER. 127 

" No, no, my child ! — not so — the Lord 
Is good — He heals His children's grief; 

The Holy Eucharist will afford 
The anguish of thy soul relief." — 

"Hush, mother, mother! What I feel 

No Eucharist can ever heal — 

No Eucharist can ever give 

The shrouded Dead again to live." 

" Ah, child, perchance thy lover now — 

A traitor to his love and thee — 
Before the altar plights his vow 

To some fair girl of Ilutigary : 
Yet weep not this perfidious wrong, 
For he will rue it late and long, 
And when his soul and body part 
His faithlessness will burn his heart." 



" Oh, mother, mother I gone is gone, 
And lorn for once is ever lorn ! 

The grave is now my hope alone : 

Would God that I had ne'er been born ! 

Out, out, sick light ! Out, flickering taper ! 

Down, down in night and charnel vapour ! 

In Heaven there is no pity — none — 

Oh, woe is me! oh, wretched one!" 

" Oh, God of mercy, enter not 

In Judgment with thy suffering child ! 

Condemn her not — she knows not what 
She raves in this delirium wild. 



128 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

My child, forget thy tears and sighs, 
And look to God and Paradise : 
A holier bridegroom shalt thoii see, 
And He will sweetly comfort thee." 



" Oh, mother, what is Paradise ? 

Oh, motlier, what and wliere is Ilell? 
In Wilhelm lies my Paradise — 

Where he is not my life is Hell ! 
Then out, sick light! Out, flickering taper ! 
Down, down in blackest night and vapour ! 
In heaven, on earth I will not share 
Dehght if Wilhelm be not there !" 



And thus, as reigned and raged despair 
Throughout her brain, through every vein, 

Did this presumptuous maiden dare 
To tax with ill God's righteous will, 

And wrang her hands and beat her breast 

Till sank the sunlight in the west. 

And under heaven's ethereal arch 

The silver stai*s began their march. 



When, list! a sound!— hark! Tioff, hoff, hoff! 

It nears, she hears a courser's tramp — 
And swiftly bounds a rider off 

Before the gate with clattering stamp ; 
And hark, the bell goes ring^ ding^ ding ! 
And hark again ! cling^ ling^ ling^ ling I 
And through the portal and the hall 
There peals a voice with hollow call : 



BUERGER. 129 

"What, ho! Up, up, sweet love inside ! 

Dost watch for me, or art thou sleeping? 
Art false, or still my faithful bride? 

And smilest thou, or art thou weeping?" — 
"What! Wilhelm ! thou? and come thus late! 
Oh ! Night has seen me weep and wait 
And suffer so ! But oh ! I fear — 
Why this wild haste in riding here ?" 

" I left Bohemia late at night : 

We journey but at midnight, we! 
My time was brief, and fleet my flight. 

Up, up! thou must away with me!" — 
" Ah, Wilhelm ! come inside the house ; 
The wind moans through the firtree boughs ; 
Come in, my heart's beloved ! and rest 
And warm thee in this faithful breast." 



" The boughs may wave, the wind may rave ; 

Let rave the blast and wave the fir ! 
Though winds may rave and boughs may wave 

My sable steed expects the spur. 
Up ! gird thyself, and spring with speed 
Behind me on my sable steed ! 
A hundred leagues must yet be sped 
Before we reach the bridal bed." 



" Oh, Wilhelm ! at so drear an hour, 
A hundred leagues away from bed ! 

Hark ! hark ! ' Eleven' from the tower 
Is tolling far with tone of dread !" — 



130 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

"Look round ! look up! The moon is bright. 
The Dead and We are fleet of flight: 
Doubt not ril bear thee hence away 
To home before the break of day." 

" And where is then the nuptial hall ? 

And where the chamber of the bride ?" 
" Far, far from hence ! Chill, still, and small, 

But six feet long by two feet wide !" 
" Hast room for me?" " For me and thee ! 
Quick ! robe thyself and come with me. 
The wedding guests await the bride ; 
The chamber-door stands open wide." 

Soon up, soon clad, with lightest bound 
On that black steed the maiden sprung, 

And round her love, and warmly round, 
Her snow-white arms she swung and flung; 

And deftly, swiftly, lioff^ hoff^ ^off! 

Away went horse and riders off; 

Till panted horse and riders too. 

And sparks and pebbles flashed and flew ! 

On left and right, with whirling flight, 
How rock and forest reeled and wheeled ! 

How danced each height before their sight ! 
AVhat thunder-tones the bridges pealed ! 

" Dost fear ! The moon is fiiir to see ; 

Hurrah ! the Dead ride rapidly ! 

Beloved ! dost dread the shrouded Dead ?" 

" Ah, no ! but let them rest," she said. 



BUERGER. 131 

But see ! what tlirong, with song and gong 
Moves by, as croaks the raven hoarse ! 

Hark ! funeral song ! Hark ! knelling dong ! 
They sing, "Let's here inter the corpse!" 

And nearer draws that mourning throng, 

And bearing hearse and bier along. 

With hollow hymn outgurgled like 

Low reptile groanings from a dyke. 

" Entomb your dead when midnight wanes, 
With knell, and bell, and funeral wail ! 

Now homewards to her dim domains 
I bear my bride — so, comrades, hail ! 

Come, Sexton, with the choral tlirong, 

And jabber me the bridal song. 

Come, Priest, the marriage must be blessed 

Before the wedded pair can rest!" 



Some spell is in the horseman's call, 
The hymn is hushed, the hearse is gone, 

And in his wake the buriers all. 

Tramp, tramp, come clattering, pattering on ; 

And onward, forward, hoff^ Jioff^ ^off! 

Away swept all in gallop off. 

Till panted steeds and riders too. 

And sparks and pebbles flashed and flew. 



On left and right, with flight of light. 

How whirled the hills, the trees, the bowers ! 

With lightlike flight, on left and right. 
How spun the hamlets, towns, and towers 



132 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" Dost quail? The moon is fair to see ; 
Hurrah ! the Dead ride recklessly ! 
Beloved! dost dread the shrouded Dead?" 
"Ah ! let the Dead repose !" she said. 

But look ! On yonder gibbet's height, 
How round his wheel, as wanly glances 

The yellow moon's unclouded light, 
A malefactor's carcase dances ! 

"So ho! poor Carcase! down with thee ! 

Down, Thing of Bones, and follow me ! 

And thou shalt briskly dance, ho, ho ! 

Before us when to bed we go !" 

"Whereon the Carcase, IriisTi^ ush^ ush! 

Came rustling, bustling, close behind, 
"With whirr as when through hazel-bush, 

Steals cracklingly the winter wind. 
And forward, onward, Jioff^ ^off^ T^off! 
Away dashed all in gallop off. 
Till panted steeds and riders too. 
And fire and pebbles flashed and flew. 

How swift the eye saw sweep and fly 
Earth's bounding car afar, afar ! 

How flew on high the circling sky, 
The heavens and every winking star. 

"Dost quake ? The moon is fair to see. 

Hurrah ! the Dead ride gloriously ! 

Beloved ! dost dread the shrouded Dead V 

"Oh woe! let rest the Dead!" she said. 



ELERGER. 13J 

"'TisAvell! Ha! ha! the cock is crowing; 

Thy sand, Beloved, is nearly run! 
I smell the breeze of Morning blowing. 

My good black steed, thy race is done ! 
The race is done, the goal is won — 
The wedding bed we shall not shun ! 
The Dead can chase and race apace ! 
Behold ! we face the fated place!" 

Before a grated portal stand 

That midnight troop and coalblack horse, 
Which, touched as by a viewless wand, 

Bursts open with gigantic force ! 
With trailing reins and lagging speed 
Wends onward now the gasping steed, 
Where ghastlily the moon illumes 
A wilderness of graves and tombs ! 

He halts. O horrible ! Behold— 
Hoo ! hoo! behold a hideous wonder! 

The rider's garments drop like mould 
Of crumbling plasterwork asunder ! 

His scull, in bony nakedness. 

Glares hairless, fleshless, featureless ! 

And now a skeleton he stands. 

With flashing Scythe and Glass of Sands ! 



High rears the barb — ^he snorts — he winks- 
His nostrils flame — his eyeballs glow — 

And, whirl ! the maiden sinks and sinks 
Down in the smothering clay below ! 
12 



134 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then howls and shrieks in air were blended ; 
And wailings from the graves ascended, 
Until her heart, in mortal strife. 
Wrestled with very Death for Life! 

And now, as dimmer moonlight wanes, 
Round Leonore in shadowy ring 

The spectres dance their dance of chains, 
And howlingly she hears them sing — 

"Bear, bear, although tliy heart be riven! 

And tamper not with God in heaven. 

Thy body's knell they soon shall toll — 

May God have mercy on thy soul!" 



^t gibbutlion of llje fabg tolnibje ban foc^burg. 

A BALLAD . 

"Boy! — Saddle quick my Danish steed! 

I rest not, I, until I ride : 
These walls unsoul me — I would speed 

Into the Farness wide!" 
So spake Sir Carl, he scarce wist why, 
With hurried voice and restless eye. 
There haunted him some omen, 
As 'twere, of slaying foemen. 

Aneath the hoofs of that swift barb 
The pebbles flew, the sparklets played ; 

When, lo ! — who nears him, sad of garb ? 
'Tis Gertrude's weeping maid! 



BUERGER. 135 



It shrivelled up liis flesh like flame, 
And shook him like an illness, 
With flushing heat and chillness. 

''God shield you, Master! May you live 

With health and gladness years on years ! 
My poor young lady — Oh, forgive 

A helpless woman's tears! — 
But lost to you is Trudkin's' hand, 
Through Freiherr Vorst from Pommerland" ; 
That drooping flower her father 
Hath sworn that Vorst shall gather! 

"'By this bright battle-steed, if thou 

But think on Carl,' — 'twas thus he said — 
'Down shalt thou to the dungeon low, 

Where toads shall share thy bed! 

Nor will I rest, morn, noon, or night, 

Till I have borne him down in fight, 

And torn out, soon or later, 

The heart of the false traitor!' 

" The bride is in her chamber now : 

What can she do but weep and sigh ? 
Dark sorrow dims her beauteous brow; 

She wishes but to die. 
Ah, yes ! — and she shall soon sleep well 
Low in the sufferer's last sad cell — 
Soon will the death-bell's knelling 
A dolesome tale be telling! 

1 Trudchcn (pronounced Tioodkiii) is the familiar German diminutive of Ger- 
rude. 1 Pomerania. 



136 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" ' Go — tell him I must surely die !' — 

Said she to me amid her tears — 
— 'Oh, tell him that ray last Good-bye 

Is that which now he hears ! 
Go — God will guard you — go, and bring 
To him from me this jewelled ring, 
In token that his true-love 
Chose Death before a new love!' " 



Like shock of sudden thunderpeal 

These tidings cleave the Ritter's ear ; 
The hills around him rock and reel, 

The dim stars disappear ; 
Thoughts wilder than the hurricane 
Flash lightning through his frenzied brain, 
And wake him to commotion, 
As Tempest waketh Ocean. 

— "God's recompense, thou faithful one! — 
Thy words have strung my soul for war — 
God's blessings on thee! — thou hast done 

Thine errand well so far — 
Now hie thee back, like mountain-deer. 
And calm that trembling angel's fear — 
This arm is strong to save her 
From tyrant and enslaver ! 

" Speed, maiden, speed ! — the moments now 
Are worth imperial gems and gold — 

Say that her knight has vowed a vow 
That she shall ne'er be sold. 



BUERGER. 137 

But, bid her watch the starry Seven, 

For, when they shine, I stand, please Heaven, 

Before her casement-portal. 

Come weal or woe immortal ! 



"Speed, maiden!" — And — as chased by Death- 

Away, away, the damsel flies — 
Sir Carl then paused a space for breath, 

And rubbed his brows and eyes, 
Then rode he to, and fro, and to, 
While sparklets gleamed and pebbles flew, 
Till Thought's exasperation 
Found vent in agitation. 

Anon he winds his foray horn, 

And, wakeful to the welcome sound, 
Come dashing down through corn and thorn 

His vassals miles around : 
To whom — each man apart — in ear 
He whispers — "When again you hear 
This horn wake wood and valley, 
Be ready for a sally !" 

Night now lay dark, with dews and damps, 

On castled hill and lilied vale ; 
In Hochburg's lattices the lamps 

Were waning dim and pale. 
And Gertrude, mindless of the gloom. 
Sat pondering in her lonesome room, 
With many a saddening presage, 
Her lover's bodeful message. 
12* 



138 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

When, list! — what accents, low, yet clear, 
Thrill to her heart with quick surprise? 
"Ho, Trudkin, love! — thy knight is near — 

Quick, up! — Awake! — Arise! — 
'Tis I, thy Carl, who call to thee — 
Come forth, come out, and fly with me! 
The westering moon gives warning 
That Night is now nigh Morning." — 

— " Ah, no, my Carl! — it may not be — 
Wrong not so far thy stainless fame! 
Were I to fly by night with thee. 

Disgrace would brand my name — 
Yet give me, give me one dear kiss! 
I ask, I seek no other bliss 

Than such a last love-token 
Before I die heart-broken." 

— "Nay, love, dread nothing! — Shame or blame 

Shall never come where thou hast flown ! 
I swear, I hold thy name and fame 

Far dearer than mine own ! 
Come ! — thou shalt find a home anon 
Where Wedlock's bands shall make us one — 
Come, Sweet! — Needst fear no danger — 
Thou trustest not a stranger!" 

— "But, — Carl, my sire! — thou knowest him well, 
The proud Rix-baron' — Oh, return ! — 

I tremble even now to tell 

How fierce his wrath would burn! 

I BeicJisbaron, a Baron of the Empire. 



BUERGER. 139 

Oh, he would track thee day and night, 

And, thirsting to revenge the flight 
Of his degenerate daughter, 
Doom thee and thine to slaughter!" 

— "Hush, hush, dear love! — this knightly crest 

AVill not, I trow, be soon disgraced ! 
Come forth, and fear not! — East or West, 

Where'er thou wilt — but haste ! 
And still those tell-tale sobs and tears ; 
The winds are out, the Xight hath ears, 
The very stars that glisten 
Begin to watch and listen!" 



Alas, poor soul ! How could she stand 
Long wavering there in fitful doubt? 
Up sprang Sir Carl — he caught her hand, 

And drew her gently out ; 
Yet, never on a purer pair 
Than that bold knight and maiden fair 
Did look the starry legions 
Whose march is o'er Earth's regions I 

Kear, in the faint grey haze of morn 

They saw the steed — the Ritter swung 
His lovely burden up ; his horn 

Around his neck he slung ; 
Then lightly leaped, himself, behind, — 
And swift sped botli as Winter-wind, 
Till Hochburg in the glimmer 
Of dawn grew dim and dimmer. 



140 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

But, ah ! — even Ritter-love may fear 

To breast the lion in his lair ! 
A menial in a chamber near 

Had overheard the pair ; 
And, hungering for such golden gains 
As might requite his treacherous pains, 
He sent out through the darkness 
A shout of thrilling starkness. 

' What ho, Herr Baron ! Ho ! Halloh ! 
Up, up from sleep ! Out, out from bed 
Your child has fled to shame and woe 

With one you hate and dread — 
The Ritter Carl of Wolfenhain ! 
They speed asteed o'er dale and plain — 
Up, if you would recover 
The lady from her lover!" 



Whop-hollow ! Whoop ! — Through saal and hall, 

Through court and fort and donjon-keep, 
Eftsoons rang loud the Baron's call, 

"What ho! — Rouse, all, from sleep! 
Ho, Freiherr Vorst, up, up ! — Must know 
The bride has hied to shame and woe 
With Carl the Wolfenhainer ! 
Up! Arm! We must regain her!" 



Swift speed the pair through Morning's damp. 
When, hark ! — what shouts teem down the wind ? 

Hark! hark! — the thunderstamp and tramp 
Of horses' hoofs behind ! 



BUERGER. 141 

And, like a tempest, o'er the plain 
Dashed Freiherr Vorst with trailing rein, 

And curses deep and bitter 

Upon the flying Ritter ! 

" Halt, midnight robber ! Halt, I say, 

Thou burglar-thief of bone-and-blood ! 
Halt, knave ! Thy felon corse ere day 

Shall serve the crow for food! 
And thou, false woman ! — by what right 
Art here ? — I tell thee that this flight 
Will henceforth, as a trumpet, 
Proclaim thee for a strumpet!" 

" Thou liest, Vorst of Pommerain ! 

Thou liest in thy leprous throat! 
Pare as yon moon in heaven from stain 

Is she on whom I doat! — 
— Sweet love! — I must dismount to teach 
The slanderous wretch discreeter speech. 



Down, thou who durst belie her. 



t" 



Down from thy steed, vile Freiherr ! 

Ah, then, I ween, did Gertrude feel 

Her sick heart sink with pain and dread — 
Meanwhile the foemen's bare bright steel 

Flashed in the morning-red — 
"With clash and crash, with flout and shout. 
Rang shrill the echoes round about. 
And clouds of dust rose thicker 
As clangorous blows fell quicker. 



142 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Like lightning's wrath came down at length 

The Kitter's broadsteel on his foe, 
And Vorst lay stripped of sword and strength ; 

When, oh — undreamt-of woe ! 
The Baron's wild moss-trooping train. 
Who, roused at midnight's hour, had ta'en 
Brief time to arm and follow, 
Kode up with whoop and hollow ! 

Yet fear no ill to Ritter Carl ! 

Hark ! Trali-rah-raJi ! — he winds his horn, 
And ten score men in mailed apparel 

Sweep down through corn and thorn — 
"So, Baron! — there! — How sayest thou now? 
Ay ! frown again with darker brow, 
But these be 7ny retainers. 
These iron Wolfenhainers ! 

" Pause, ere thou leave true lovers lorn ! 
Remorse may wring thy soul too late! 
Thy child and I long since have sworn 

To share each other's fate ! — 
But, wilt thou part us — wilt thou^ brave 
Thy daughter's curse when in her grave. 
So be it ! On ! — I care not ! 
I, too, can slay and spare not I 

"Yet hold ! — one other course is thine, 
A worthier course, a nobler choice — 

Mayest blend thy daughter's Aveal with mine, 
May est bid us both rejoice — 

1 Viz., If thou icilt (according to the German idiom). 



BUERGER. 143 

Give, Baron, give me Trudkin's hand! 
Heaven's bounty gave me gold and land, 

And Calumny can toucli on 

No blot in my escutcheon!" 

Alas ! poor Gertrude ! Who can tell 

Her agony of hope and fear, 
As, like a knell, each full word fell 

Upon her anxious ear ? 
She cast herself in tears to earth, 
She wrang her hands till blood gushed forth,^ — 
She tried each fond entreaty 
To move her sire to pity. 

" O, father, for the love of Heaven, 

Have mercy on your child ! Forgive, 
Even as you look to be forgiven! — 

A guilty fugitive 
I am not ! — If I fled from one 
Whom still I cannot chuse but shun 
As ruffian-like and hateful. 
Oh, call me not ungrateful ! 

"Think, think how in my childhood's days 
You used to take me on your knee, 

And sing me old romantic lays, 
Which yet are dear to me ! 

1 "Sie rang die schonen Hande jc««f?," — She wrang the fair hands tcounded, 
i. e., until they were wounded. So also they say in Germany, — " Er hat sich arm 
gebauet,"— He has built himself poor ; i. e.. He has impoverished himself by 
building. This I notice here merely as being a peculiarly condensed and forcible 
mode of expression. 



144 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

You called me then your hope, your pride ; 
Oh, father, cast not now aside 

Those hallowed recollections ! 

Crush not your child's affections!" 

Oh, mighty !N"ature ! — how at last 

Thou conquerest all of Adam's race ! — 
The Baron turned away and passed 

One hand across his face — 

He felt his eyes grow moist and dim, 

And tears were such a shame in him, 

Whose glory lay in steeling 

His bosom against Feeling! 

But, all in vain! — a thousand spears 

Pierce in each word his daughter speaks— 
In vain ! — the pent-up floods of years 

Roll down the warrior's cheeks! 
And now he raises up his child. 
And kisses o'er and o'er her mild 
Pale face of angel meekness ! 
With all a father's weakness ! 

'' My child ! I may have seemed severe — 

Well, God forgive me — as I now 
Forgive thee also freely here 

All bypast faults ! — And thou, 
My son, come hither!" — And the Knight 
Obeyed, all wonder and delight — 
"Since love bears no re[)i'essing, 
Mayest have her, — with my blessing! 



BUERGER. 145 

" Why carry to a vain excess 

The enmities of Life's short span ? 
Forgiveness and Forgetfulness 
Are v^^hat Man owes to Man. 
What, thougli thy sire was long my foe, 
And wrought me Wrong — since he hes low 
Where lie the Best and Bravest, 
Peace to him in his clay- vest ! 

"Come! — all shall soon be well once more — 

For, with our feuds, our cares will cease ; 
And Heaven has rich rewards in store 

For those who cherish Peace. 
Come, children ! — this day ends our strife — 
Clasp hands! — There! — May your path of life 
Be henceforth strewn with roses!" 
And here the ballad closes- 



Up rose the sun : the church-dome shone 
And burned aloft like burnished gold, 

And deep and far, with swelling tone, 
The Sabbath-bell for matins tolled. 

Those holy peals from tower and steeple 

Awoke to prayer the Christian people. 

His horn the Wild-and-Rhinegrave sounded- 
" What ho! To horse! to horso away !"- 
13 



146 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

His fiery steed beneath him bounded ; 

Forth sprang the hounds with yell and bay, 
And, loosed from leash, they dashed pell-mell 
Through corn and thorn, down dell and fell. 

In curve and zig-zag sped their flight, 
And "Ho! Halloo!" how rang the air! 

When, towards the Knight came left and right 
A horseman here, a horseman there! 

A snow-white steed the one bestrode : 

Like lurid fire the other's glowed. 

Who were the yagers left and right? 

I darkly guess, but fear to say. 
The countenance of one was bright 

And lovely as a Summer's day ; 
The other's eye-balls, fierce and proud, 
Shot lightning, like a thunder-cloud. 

"All hail, Sir Count! We come in time 
To chase the stag with horse and hound : 

Can lordlier sport or more sublime 
Than this on Earth, in Heaven be found!" 

So spake the left-hand stranger there. 

And tossed his bonnet high in air. 

" 111 sounds to-day thy boisterous horn," 

Thus did the other mildly say : 
" Turn round to church this hallowed morn, 

Mayest else hunt down a rueful prey ! 
Thy better angel is thy warner, 
And bids thee flee the unholy scorner." 



BUERGER. 147 

"Spur on, spur on, Sir Count, with me!" 

Exclaimed the left-hand cavalier : 
" What's droning chant or chime to thee ? 

Hast got far nobler pastime here. 
Come ! learn in my distinguished school, 
And laugh to scorn yon pious fool !" 

" Ha ! ha ! Well said, my left-hand feere ! 

We tally bravely, I and thou : 
Who shuns this day to drive the deer 

Should count his beads in church, I trow. 
Mayest go, priest-ridden oaf, and pray ; 
For me, I'll hunt the livelong day." 

And, helter-skelter, forward flew 

That headlong train o'er plain and height : 

And still the yagers one and two 

Preserved their places left and right ; 

And soon a milk-white stag they spied, 

With mighty antlers branching wide. 

Afresh the Wildgrave winds his horn. 
And horse and hound sweep on amain ; 

When, hurled to earth, all gashed and torn, 
A man lies trampled by the train. 

" Ay, trample — to the devil trample ! 

Our princely sport must needs be ample!" 

And now, as in a field of corn 

The panting prey a shelter seeks, 
A husbandman, with look forlorn, 

Stands forth, uplifts his hands, and speaks ; 
" Oh ! mercy, noble lord ! and spare 
The poor man's sweat and hoary hair!" 



148 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

The pitying right-hand cavalier 

Then mildly warns and blandly pleads ; 

But, taunted by his horrid feere, 

Who goads him on to devilish deeds, 

The Wildgrave fiercely spurns his warner, 

And hearkens to the left-hand scorner. 

"Avaunt, vile dog! — else, by the devil," 
The Wildgrave shouted furiously, 

"My blood-hounds on thy bones shall revel: 
Halloo, companions ! follow me ! 

And lash your whip-thongs in his ear. 

Until the reptile quake for fear !" 

Soon said, soon done — the Wildgrave springs 
Across the fence with whoop and hollow, 

And, bugle-filled, the welkin rings. 

As hound, and horse, and hunter follow, 

Who trample down the yellow grain, 

Until the ruin reeks again. 

The sounds once more the stag awaken ; 

Uproused, he flies o'er heights and plains, 
Till, hotly chased, but uno'ertaken, 

A pasture-ground at last he gains. 
And crouches down among the heather, 
Where flocks and cattle browse together. 

But on, by grot, and wood, and hill, 
And on, by hill, and wood, and grot 

The yelling dogs pursue him still. 

And scent his track, and reach the spot ; 

Whereon the herdsman, filled with trouble. 

Falls face to earth before the Noble. 



BUERGER. 149 

" ! mercy, lord ! Let not thy hounds 

On these defenceless creatures fall ! 
Bethink thee, noble Count, these grounds 

Hold many a widow's little all! 
Sirs, as ye hope for mercy yet, 
Spare, spare the poor man's bitter sweat!" 

And now the gentler cavalier 

Renews his prayer, and sues and pleads — 
But, taunted by his godless feere. 

Who goads him on to hellish deeds, 
The Wildgrave scowls upon his warner, 
And hearkens to the left-hand scorner. 

"Audacious clay-clod! hast thou done? 

I would to Heaven thy herds and thou, 
Calves, cows, and sheep, were bound in one ! 

By all that's damnable I vow 
That were ye thus, 'twould glad me well 
To hunt ye to the gates of Hell ! 

" Halloo, companions ! follow me — 

Ho! tally-ho! hurrah! hurrah!" 
So, on the hounds rush ragingly. 

And grapple each his nearest prey : 
Down sinks the herdsman, torn and mangled, 
Down sinks his herd, all gashed and strangled. 

Grown feebler now, the stag essays. 

His coat besplashed with foam and blood, 

To reach, by many winding ways. 
The covert of a neighbouring wood. 

And, plunging down a darksome dell, 

Takes refuge in a hermit's cell. 
13* 



150 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

But hark ! the horn! the clangorous horn, 
The harsh liurrah and stunning cheer, 

Along the blast afresh are borne, 
And horse and huntsman follow here, 

Till, startled by the barbarous rout, 

The old recluse himself comes out 

"Back, impious man! What! wilt profane 

God's venerated sanctuary ? 
Behold! His creatures' groans of pain 

Even now call down his wrath on thee: 
Be warned, I charge thee, for the last time, 
Or swift perdition waits thy pastime!" 

Again the right-hand cavalier 

In earnest mood entreats and pleads ; 

But, taunted by his grisly feere. 

Who goads him still to hellish deeds. 

The Count shakes off his faithful warner, 

And hearkens to the left-hand scorner. 

" Perdition here, perdition there, 
I reck not, I," the Wildgrave cried ; 

" Ay, even through Heaven itself I swear 
I'd count it noble sport to ride. 

What care I, dolt! for thee or God? 

I'll have my will and way, unawed." 



He sounds his whip, he winds his horn — 
"Halloo, companions! Forward! On!" 

But, scattered like the mists of morn, 
Lo ! horse and hound and man are gone ! 

And echoing horns and yagers' hollows 

The stillness of the grave-porch swallows. 



BUERGER. 151 

The Wiklgrave glances round, amazed ; 

In vain the bugle meets his lip: 
In vain his toneless voice is raised; 

In vain he tries to wield his whip ; 
He spurs his horse on either side, 
But neither to nor fro can ride. 

All round the air shows clogged with gloom, 
And through its blackness dense and dread 

Sweep sounds as when the surges boom. 
Anon above the Wildgrave's head 

Red lightning cleaves the cloud asunder, 

And then these words burst forth in thunder: — 

'' O ! foe of Heaven and. Human-kind ! 

Accursed wretch, less man than fiend, 
Whom neither love nor law can bind! 

Even now thy victims' cries ascend 
Before the judgment-seat of God, 
Where Justice grasps the avenging rod ! 

*' Fl}^, monster, fly ! and henceforth be 
Chased night and day by demon-hordes, 

The sport of Hell eternally. 

For warning to those ruthless lords 

Who, sooner than forego their mirth. 

Would desolate both Heaven and Earth !" 

A lurid twilight, snlphur-pale. 

Forthwith envelopes wild and wood : 

What horrors now his heart assail! 
What frenzy fires his brain and blood. 

While that pale sulphur-lightning flashes. 

And ice-winds hiss and thunder crashes! 



152 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then thunder groans, the ice-winds blow, 
The woods are dad in sulphur-sheen ; 

"When, rising from the earth below, 
A black, gigantic hand is seen, 

Which grasps the Wildgrave by the hair, 

And whirls him round and round in air. 

The flaming billows round him sweep 
With green, and blue, and orange glow ; 

And, wandering through that burning deep, 
Move shapeless monsters to and fro. 

Till from its gulf, with howl and yell. 

Up rush the ghastly hounds of Hell. 

Thus first began that Yager's cliase — 
And, chorussing his shrieks and cries. 

Still after him throughout all space 
His bellowing escort onward flies ; 

All day through Earth's deep dens and hollows, 

All night through upper air it follows. 

And ever thus, by night and day. 

Through shifting moons and wheeling years, 

He sees that phantom crew alway ; 
And night and day he ever hears 

Their hellish yells and hideous laughter 

Borne on the winds that follow after. 

This is the Demon-Yager's Chase, 
Which, till the years of Time be told. 

At midnight oft through airy space 

The shuddering Landman n must behold ; 

And many a huntsman knows fnll well 

The tale which yet he dreads to tell. 



BUERGER. 153 



Oh ! maiden of heavenly birth, 

Than rubies and gold more precious, 
Who earnest of old upon Earth, 

To solace the human species! 
As fair as the morn that uncloses 

Her gates in a region sunny, 
Thou openest lips of roses 

And utterest words of honey. 

When Innocence forth at the portals 

Of Sorrow and Sin was driven, 
For sake of afflicted mortals 

Thou leftest tliy home in Heaven, 
To mitigate Anguish and Trouble, 

The monstrous brood of Crime, 
And restore us the prospects noble 

That were lost in the olden time. 

Tranquillity never-ending 

And Happiness move in thy train: 
Where Might is with Might contending, 

And labor and tumult reign. 
Thou succourest those that are toiUng, 

Ere yet all their force hath departed; 
And pourest thy balsam of oil in 

The wounds of the Broken-hearted. 

Thou lendest new strength to the warrior 
When battle is round hini and peril ; 



154 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Thou formest the husbandman's barrier 
'Gainst Grief, when his fields are sterile; 

From the sun and the bright Spring showers, 
From the winds and the gentle dew, 

Thou gatherest sweets for the flowers 
And growth for the meads anew. 

When armies of sorrows come swooping, 

And Eeason is captive to Sadness, 
Thou raisest the soul that was drooping, 

And givest it spirit and gladness; 
The powers Despair had degraded 

Thou snatchest from dreary decay. 
And all that was shrunken and faded 

Reblooms in the light of thy ray. 

When the Sick on his couch lies faintest 

Thou deadenest half of his dolours, 
For still as he suffers thou paintest 

The Future in rainbow colours : 
By thee are his visions vermillioned ; 

Thou thronest his soul in a palace, 
In which, under purple pavilioned. 

He quaffs Immortality's chalice. 

Down into the mine's black hollows, 

Where the slave is dreeing his doom, 
A ray from thy lamp ever follows 

His footsteps throughout the gloom. 
And the wretch condemned in the galleys 

To swink at the ponderous oar. 
Revived by thy whisperings, rallies. 

And thinks on his labours no more. 



SIMROCK. 166 

O, goddess ! the gales of whose breath 

Are the heralds of Life when we languish, 
And who dashest the potion of Death 

From the lips of the martyr to Anguish : 
No earthly event is so tragic 

But thou winnest good from it still, 
And the lightning-like might of thy magic 

Is conqueror over all ill ! 



KARL SIMROCK. 



There lived a Knight long years ago, 
Proud, carnal, vain, devotionless. 
Of God above, or Hell below. 
He took no thought, but, undismayed, 
Pursued his course of wickedness. 

His heart was rock ; he never prayed 
To be forgiven for all his treasons ; 
He only said, at certain seasons, 
" O Mart, Queen of Mercy !" 

Years rolled, and found him still the same. 
Still draining Pleasure's poison-bowl; 

Yet felt he now and then some shame ; 
The torment of the Undying Worm 
At whiles woke in his trembling soul ; 



156 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And then, though powerless to reform, 
Would he, in hope to appease that sternest 
Avenger, cry, and more in earnest, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy !" 

At last Youth's riotous time was gone, 
And loathing now came after Sin. 
With locks yet brown he felt as one 

Grown grey at heart ; and oft, with tears, 
He tried, but all in vain, to win 

From the dark desert of his years 
One flower of hope ; yet, morn and e'ening, 
He still cried, but with deeper meaning, 
" O Maey, Queen of Mercy ! " 

A happier mind, a holier mood, 
A purer spirit, ruled him now : 

No more in thrall to flesh and blood, 
He took a pilgrimrstaflF in hand, 
And, under a religious vow. 

Travailed his way to Pomraerland, 
There entered he an humble cloister, 
Exclaiming, while his eyes grew moister, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy !" 

Here, shorn and cowled, he laid his cares 
Aside, and wrought for God alone. 
Albeit he sang no choral prayers, 

Nor matin hymn nor laud could learn, 
He mortified his flesh to stone ; 

For him no penance was too stern ; 
And often prayed he on his lonely 
Cell-couch at night, but still said only, 
" O Mary, Queen of Mercy !" 



SIMROCK. 157 

And thus he lived long, long; and, when 
God's angels called him, thus he died. 
Confession made he none to men. 
Yet, when they anointed him w'ith oil, 
He seemed already glorified. 

His penances, his tears, his toil, 
Were past ; and now, with passionate sighing 
Praise thus hroke from his lips while dying, 
"O Maey, Queen of Mercy!" 

They buried him with mass and song 
Aneath a little knoll so green ; 

But, lo! a wonder-sight! — Ere long 

Rose, blooming, from that verdant mound, 
The fairest lily ever seen ; 

And, on its petal-edges round. 
Relieving their translucent whiteness. 
Did shine these words in gold-hued brightness, 
"O Mary, Queen of Mercy!" 

And, Avould God's angels give thee power. 
Thou, dearest reader, mightst behold 
The fibres of this holy flower 

Upspringing from the dead man's heart 
In tremulous threads of light and gold ; 

Then wouldst thou choose the better part !* 
And thenceforth flee Sin's foul suggestions ; 
Thy sole response to mocking questions, 
" Maet, Queen of Mercy !" 

1 Luke X. 42. 

14 



158 GERMAN ANTHOLOGT. 



EDUARD MOERIKE. 



River ! my River in the young sun-shine! 

O, clasp afresh in thine embrace 
This longing, burning frame of mine, 

And kiss my breast, and kiss ray face ! 
So, — there! — Ha, ha! — already in thy arms! 

I feel thy love — I shout — I shiver ; 

But thou outlaughest loud a flouting song, proud River, 
And now again my bosom warms! 

The di:oplets of the golden sunlight glide 

Over and off me, sparkling, as I swim 
Hither and thither down thy mellow tide, 

Or loll amid its crypts with outstretched limb : 
I fling abroad mine arms, and lo ! 

Thy wanton waves curl slily round me ; 

But ere their loose chains have well bound me 
Again they burst away and let me go ! 



Hum, hum alway, thy strange, deep, mystic song 
Unto the rocks and strands ? — for they are dumb, 
And answer nothing as thou flowest along. 



MOERIKE. 15d 

Why singest so all hours of night and day ? 

Ah, River! my best Pwiver! thou, I guess, art seeking 
Some land where souls have still the gift of speaking 

With Nature in her own old wondrous way ! 

Lo ! highest Heaven looms far below me here ; 

I see it in thy waters, as they roll, 
So beautiful, so blue, so clear, 

'Twould seem, O River mine, to be thy very soul! 
Oh, could I hence dive down to such a sky. 

Might I but bathe my spirit in that glory, 

So far outshining all in ancient fairy-story, 
I would indeed have joy to die! 

What on cold Earth is deep as thou ! Is aught ? 

Love is as deep, Love only is as deep : 
Love lavisheth All, yet loseth, lacketh I^ought ; 

Like thee, too, Love can neither pause nor sleep. 
Roll on, thou loving river, thou! Lift up 

Thy waves, those eyes bright with a riotous laughing! 

Thou makest me immortal ! I am quaffing 
The wine of rapture from no earthly cup ! 

At last thou bearest me, with soothing tone. 

Back to th}' bank of rosy flowers : 
Thanks, then, and fare thee well! — Enjoy thy bliss alone! 

And through the year's melodious hours 
Echo for ever from thy bosom broad 

All glorious tales that sun and moon be telling ; 

And woo down to their soundless fountain-dwelling 
The holy stars of God ! 



160 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



JOHANN ELIAS SCHLEGEL. 



My love, my winged love, is like the swallow, 

Which ill Autumn flies from home, 

But, when balmy Spring agen is come, 
And soft airs and sunshine follow, 

Returneth newly. 

And gladdens her old haunts till after bowery July. 

My slumberous love is like the winter-smitten 

Tree, whereon Decay doth feed. 

Till the drooping dells and forests read 
What the hand of May hath written 

Against their sadness ; 

And then, behold ! it wakens up to life and gladness ! 

My love, my flitting love, is like the shadow 

All day long on path or wall : 

Let but Evening's dim-grey curtains fall. 
And the sunlight leave the meadow. 

And, self-invited, 

It wanders through all bowers where Beauty's lamps 
are lighted. 



GEIBLER. 161 



EMANUEL GEIBLER. 



Cl^arlcrnHgite anb lljc §ribge of Pfoonbtains. 

[" Many traditions are extant of the fondness of Charlemagne for the neighbonr- 
hood of Langewinkel. Nay, it is firmly believed that his aflfection survived his 
death ; and that even now, at certain seasons of the year, his spirit loves to wake 
from its slumber of ages, and revisit it still."— Snowe'S Legends of the Shine, 
vol. ii.] 

Beauteous is it in the Summer-night, and calm along the 

Rhine, 
And like molten silver shines the light that sleeps on 

wave and vine. 
But a stately Figure standeth on the Silent Hill alone, 
Like the pliantoin of a Monarch looking vainly for his 

throne ! 

Yes ! — 'tis he — the unforgotten Lord of this beloved land ! 
'Tis the glorious Car'lus Magnus, with his gleamy sword 

in hand. 
And his crown enwreathed with myrtle, and his golden 

sceptre bright, 
x\ndhis rich imperial purple vesture floating on the night! 

Since he dwelled among his people stormy centuries have 

rolled, 
Thrones and kingdoms have departed, and the world is 

waxing old : 

14* 



162 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Why leaveth he his house of rest? Why cometh he once 

more 
From his marble tomb to wander here by Langawinkel's 

shore ? 

O, fear ye not the Emperor ! — he doth not leave his tomb 
As the herald of disaster to our land of blight and bloom ; 
He cometh not with blight or ban on castle, field, or 

shrine, 
But with overflowing blessings for tlie Vineyards of the 

Ehine! 

As a bridge across the river lie the moonbeams all the 

time, 
They shine from Langawinkel unto ancient Ingelheim; 
And along this Bridge of Moonbeams is the Monarch seen 

. to go, 
And from thence he pours his blessings on the royal flood 

below. 

He blesses all the vineyards, he blesses vale and plain, 
The lakes and glades and orchards, and fields of golden 

grain. 
The lofty castle-turrets and the lowly cottage-hearth ; 
He blesses all, for over all he reigned of yore on earth ; 

Tlien to each and all so lovingly he waves a mute Fare- 
well, 

And returns to slumber softly in his tomb at La Ohapelle, 

Till the vSummertime be come again, with sun, and rain, 
and dew. 

And the vineyards and the gardens woo him back to them 
anew. 



i 



RICHTER. 163 



JOHANN PAUL RICHTER. 



m^t icbj-fear's S;igfet of k PbcmWe Part. 

In the lone stillness of the New-year's Night 
An old man at his window stood, and turned 

His dim eyes to the firmament, where, bright 
And pure, a million rolling planets burned, 

x\nd then down on the earth all cold and white, 
And felt that moment that of all who mourned 

xVnd groaned upon its bosom, none there were 

With his deep wretchedness and great despair. 

For, near him lay his grave — hidden from view 
Not by the flowers of Youth, but by the snows 

Of Age alone. In torturing thought he flew 
Over the Past, and on his memory rose 

That picture of his life whicli Conscience drew, 
AVith all its fruits — Diseases, Sins, and Woes ; 

A ruined frame, a blighted soul, dark years 

Of Agony, Remorse, and withering Fears. 

Like spectres now his bright Youth-days came back, 
And that cross-road of Life where, when a l)oy. 

His father placed him first : its right-hand track 
Leads to a land of Glory, Peace, and Joy, 



164 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Its left to wildernesses waste and black, 

Where snakes and plagues and poison-winds destroy. 
Which had he trod ? Alas ! the serpents hung 
Coiled round his heart, their venom on his tongue. 

Sunk in unutterable grief, he cried, 

" Restore my youth to me ! Oh, God ! restore 
My morn of Life ! Oh, father ! be my guide, 

And let me, let me chuse my path once more !" 
But on the wide waste air his ravings died 

Away, and all was silent as before. 
His youth had glided by, fleet as the wave, 
His father came not ; he was in his grave. 



Strange lights flashed flickering by : a star was falling; 

Down to the miry marsh he saw it rush — 
Lihe me ! he thought, and oh ! that thought was galling, 

And hot and heartwrung tears began to gush. 
Sleepwalkers crossed his eyes in shapes appalling ; 

Gaunt windmills lifted up their arms to crush ; 
And skeleton monsters rose up from the dim 
Pits of the charnelhouse, and glared on him ! 



Amid these overboiling bursts of feeling. 

Rich music, heralding the young year's birth, 

Rolled from a distant steeple, like the pealing 
Of some celestial organ o'er the earth: 

Milder emotions over him came stealing; 
He felt the soul's unpurchasable worth. 

"Return!" again he cried, imploringly; 

"Oh, my lost Youth I return, return to me! 



ANONYMOUS. 165 

And Youth returned, and Age withdrew its terrors. 

Still was he young, for he had dreamed the whole ; 
But faithful is the image Conscience mirrors 

When whirlwind passions darken not the soul. 
Alas ! too real were his sins and errors. 

Too truly had he made the earth his goal ; 
He wept, and thanked his God that, with the will, 
He had the power, to choose the right path still. 

Here, youthful reader, ponder ! and if thou, 

Like him, art reeling over the Abyss, 
And shakest oif Sin's iron bondage now, 

This ghastly dream may prove thy guide to bliss ; 
But, should Age once be written on thy brow 

Its wrinkles will not be a dream, like this. 
Mayest vainly pour thy tears above the Urn 
Of thy departed Youth — it never will return I 



ANONYMOUS. 



iStljere arc lljcg ? 

SWABIAN POPULAR SONG. 

Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gladsome, all ? 
Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gladsome, all ? 

They left the festal liearth and hall. 



166 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

They pine afar from us in alien climes. 

Oh, who shall bring them back to us once more ? 

Who shall restore 
Life's fairy floral times ? 

Restore 
Life's fairy floral times ? 

Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gallant, all? 
Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gallant, all? 

At Freedom's thrilling clarion-call 
They went forth in the pride of Youthhood's powers. 

Oh, who shall give them back to us once more? 

Who shall restore 
Long-buried hearts and hours? 

Restore 
Long-buried hearts and hours ? 

Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gifted, all ? 
Where are they, the Beloved, 

The Gifted, all ? 

They would not yield their souls the thrall 
Of gold, or sell the glory of their lays. 

Oh, who shall give them back to us once more? 

Who shall restore 
The bright young songful days ? 

Restore 
The bright young songful days ? 

God only can restore us 
The lost ones all. 



KOERNER. 167 

But God He will restore us 

The lost ones all ! 

What, though the Future's shadows fall 
Dark o'er their fate, seen darker through our tears, 

Our God will give them back to us once more — 

He can restore 
The vanished golden years ; 

Restore 
The vanished golden years ! 



KARL THEODORE KOERNER. 



^^t pinstrel's potljerlaiib. 

"Wheee lies the minstrel's Motherland ? 

Where Love is faith and Friendship duty, 

Where Valour wins its meed from Beauty,. 

Where Man makes Truth, not Gold, his booty, 
And Freedom bids the soul expand — 
There lai/ my Motherland ! 

Where Man makes Truth, not Gold, his booty, 
There was my Motherland ! 

How fares the minstrel's Motherland ? 
The land of oaks and sunlit waters 
Is dark with woe, is red with slaughters ; 
Her bravest sons, her fairest daughters, 



168 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Are (lead — or live proscribed and banned — 
So fares my Motherland ! 

The land of oaks and sunlit waters — 
My cherished Motherland ! 

Why weeps the minstrel's Motherland ? 
To see her sons, while tyrants trample 
Her yellow fields and vineyards ample, 
So coldly view the bright example 

Long shown them by a faithful band — 

For this weeps Motlierland ! 

Because they slight that high example 

Weeps thus my Motherland ! 



What wants the minstrel's Motherland ? 

To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming, 
And see their German broadswords gleaming. 
And spy their German standard streaming, 

Who spurn the Despot's haught command — 

This wants my Motherland ! 

To fire the Cold and rouse the Dreaming, 

This wants my Motherland ! 

Whom calls the minstrel's Motherland? 
Her saints and gods of ancient ages, 
Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages, 
To bless the war fair Freedom wages. 

And speed her torch from hand to hand — 

These calls my Motherland ! 

Her Great and Bold, her bards and sages. 

These calls my Motherland ! 



KOERNER. 169 

And hopes then still the minstrel's Land ? 

Yes ! Prostrate in her deep dejection, 

She still dares hope swift resurrection ! 

She hopes in Heaven and His protection 
Who can redeem from Slavery's brand — 
This hopes my Motherland ! 

She hopes in God and God's protection, 
My suffering Motherland ! 



" Glaive, that liglitenest by my side, 
What may mean, thy bright slieen ? 
Glaive, that liglitenest by my side, 
Wouldst thou woo me, as a bride, 
To the red battle-ground, 
Hurrah ! 
Where the thunders of the cannon resound? 

Hurrah ! 
Where the thunders of the cannon resound ?" 

-" Gallant master ! Valiant knight ! 

I rejoice in thy voice ! 
Gallant master! Valiant knight! 
I so shine, so lighten bright, 
I, thy bride and thy glaive. 
Hurrah ! 
Because wedded to a hero so brave. 

Hurrah ! 
Because wedded to a hero so brave!" 
15 



IVO GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

— " True ! my joyous brillicant steel, 
I am brave, am no slave ! 
True ! ray joyous brilliant steel ! 
And to-day, for woe or weal, 
Here I plight thee my troth, 
Hurrah ! 
It is. Victory or Death for us both ! 

Hurrah ! 
It is, Victory or Death for us both !" 

— " O ! thy bride delights to hear 
That glad shout thus rung out! 
! thy bride delights to hear 
That proud peal, so clarion-clear ! 
When, O, when, dawns the day, 
Hurrah ! 
When thou bearest thy Beloved away, 

Hurrah ! 
When thou bearest thy Beloved away ?*' 

— " When the drums beat loud to arras 
Then is born that bright morn ! 
When the drums beat loud to arms. 
When the thrilling bugle warms 
The quick blood in all veins. 
Hurrah ! 
Then I bear thee to the red battle-plains, 
"" Hurrah ! 

Then I bear thee to the red battle-plains!" 

— "O! that glorious day of days, 
May its noon shine out soon, 



KOERNER. 



171 



Shine out soon with blood-red rays ! 
! that glorious day of days ! 
May it dawn and expire, 

Hurrah ! 
Amid trumpet-blasts and thunder and fire, 

Hurrah ! 
Amid trumpet- blasts and thunder and fire!" 

-" Why so restless, bride of mine ? 
Why just now startedst thou? 
Why so restless, bride of mine, 
In that iron room of thine? 
Thou art restless and wild, 
Hurrah ! 
Thou art wild in thy delight as a child. 

Hurrah ! 
Thou art wild in thy delight as a child!" 

-" Wild I am in my delight — 

Wild and glad, wild and mad ! 
Wild I am in my delight — 
Thirsting, burning for the fight, 
When the glaive and the gun. 
Hurrah ! 
Blend the lightning and the earthquake in one, 

Hurrah ! 
Blend the lightning and the earthquake in one!" 

-" Quiet thee, my hope, my heart ! 

Bear the gloom of thy room ! 
Quiet thee, my hope, my heart! 
Bide a season where thou art, 



172 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Thou sh.alt soon be released, 

Hurrah ! 
And shalt banquet at the great battle-feast, 

Hurrah ! 
And shalt banquet at the great battle-feast!" 

— "I must forth! O! let us rove. 
Hand in hand, o'er the land 1 
I must forth ! I burn to rove 
Through the gardens of my love. 
Where the roses, blood-red. 
Hurrah ! 
Bloom in brilliantest array o'er the Dead, 

Hurrah ! 
Bloom in brilliantest array o'er the Dead!" 

— " As thou wilt, then. Faithful One ! 
South or north, we'll go forth ! 
As thou wilt, then. Faithful One ! 
Let us follow Fortune on. 
Over hill, dell, and heath. 
Hurrah ! 
Till I deck thee with my first laurel-wreath, 

Hurrah ! 
Till I deck thee with my first laurel-wreath !" 

— " O, joy ! joy ! Lead on ! O, lead ! 
Now are Ave truly free ! 
O, joy ! joy ! Lead on ! O, lead ! 
Onward, forward, will we speed 
To the broad nuptial-plain. 
Hurrah ! 



KOERNER. 173 

Where we'll wed amid the tempest and red rain, 

Hurrah ! 
Where we'll wed amid the tempest and red rain !" — 



So spake out, in joy and pride. 

On their way to the fray. 
So spake out, in joy and pride 
One young bridegroom and his bride — 
Up, then, youth of the land ! 
Hurrah ! 
Up and proffer your Beloved the hand ! 

Hurrah ! 
Up, and proffer your Beloved the hand ! 



Let her not hang down her head, 
Her, your bride, by your side ! 
Let her not hang down her head 
By your side, as one half-dead — 
Let her feel your embrace, 
Hurrah ! 
Let her glory shed its rays on your face. 

Hurrah ! 
Let her glory shed its rays on your face! 



Press her bright mouth' unto yours ! 

Cold it seems, but its beams 
Are the brave man's warmest lures ! 
Press her bright mouth unto yours ! 

She should not be denied, 

1 The hilt of the sword. 

15* 



174 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Hurrah ! 
Curst is lie who basely turns from the bride, 

Hurrah ! 
Curst is he who basely turns from the bride ! 

Brothers, look! The morning breaks — 

Up ! Arise ! for time flies — 
Brothers, look ! The morning breaks, 
The sky reddens, the earth shakes, 
Are you true men and good ? 
Hurrah ! 
Then be foremost at the Bridal of Blood ! 

Hurrah ! 
Stand up foremost at the Bridal of Blood ! 



OTTO RUNGE. 



iolittcss to ilje forb. 

Theke blooms a beautiful Flower; it blooms in a far-off 

land; 
Its life has a mystic meaning for few to understand. 
Its leaves illumine the valley, its odour scents the wood; 
And if evil men come near it they grow for the moment 

good. 



MAHLMANN. 175 

When the winds are tranced in slumber the rays of this 

luminous Flower 
Shed glory more tliau earthly o'er lake and hill and bower ; 
The hut, the hall, the palace, yea, Earth's forsalcenest sod. 
Shine out in the wondrous lustre that fills the Heaven of 

God. 

Three kings came once to a hostel, wherein lay the Flower 

so rare : 
A star shone over its roof, and they knelt adoring there. 
Whenever thou seest a damsel whose young eyes dazzle 

and win, 
O, pray that her heart may cherish this Flower of Flowers 

within ! 



S. A. MAHLMANN. 



Blest are the Dormant 

Tn Death ! They repose 
From Bondage and Torment, 
From Passions and Woes, 
From the yoke of the world and the snares of the traitor, 
The Grave, the Grave, is the true Liberator! 



1*76 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Griefs chase one another 

Around the Earth's dome : 
In the arms of the Mother^ 
Alone is our home. 
Woo Pleasure, ye triflers ! The Thoughtful are wiser ; 
The Grave, the Grave, is their one Tranquilliser ! 

Is the Good man unfriended 

On Life's ocean-path. 
Where storms have expended 
Their turbulent wrath? 
Are his labours requited by Slander and Eancor ? 
The Grave, the Grave is his sure bower-anchor ! 

To gaze on the faces 

Of Lost ones anew, — 
To lock in embraces 

The Loved and the True, 
Were a rapture to make even Paradise brighter; 
The Grave, the Grave is the great Reuniter ! 

Crown the corpse then with laurels, 

The conqueror's wreath, 
Make joyous with carols 
The Chamber of Death, 
And welcome the Victor with cymbal and psalter; 
The Grave, the Grave is the only Exalter ! 

1 Mother Earth. 



GOETHE. 1*7 7 



JOHANN WOLFGANG VON GOETHE. 



OTIjc IThjj of Ibc Cnptibe Couitt. 

THE COUNT. 

I KNOW a Flower of beauty rare, 

And long with sweetest anguish 
To go and cull this Flower so fair ; 

But here in thrall I languish. 
All day I murmur, " Woe is me !" 
For, while as yet my steps were free 
This lovely flower was in my power. 

From these blank walls I gaze in vain 

To find my cherished Flower ; 
The dell is lost, and dim the plain, 

So lofty is this tower ! 
But, be he knave, or be he knight. 
Who brings me here my heart's delight, 
I'll call him nearest friend and dearest. 

THE EOSE. 

Behold ! a Flower divinely bright 

Below thy trellis bloweth ; 
Thou surely meanest me, Sir Knight, 

The Rose that richly gloweth : 



1*78 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

A princely mind is thine, I ween, 

The flower of flowers, the garden-queen, 

Methinks must blossom on thy bosom. 

THE COUNT. 

Rose ! we prize thy damask dyes 
Through leafy darkness peering : 

As precious thou in maiden's eyes 

As pearl, or gold, or ear-ring. 
Thou deckest well her braided hair; 
Yet art not thou the wonder fair 
Whereon I ponder, ever fonder, 

THE LILY. 

The flaunting Rose is proud of port, 

And proud are they who seek hpr. , 
But modest minds will fainer court 

A coyer flower and meeker. 
The soft in soul, the pure in heart, 
Methinks will chuse the better part, 
And love with stilly love the Lify. 

THE COUNT. 

1 hold myself unstained and chaste, 

And free from darker failings ; 
Yet here, a captive wretch, I waste 

My heart in bitter wailings! 
Meet emblem of the Undefiled 
Art thou, a spotless flower and mild, 
But mine is rarer, dearer, fairer. 



lid 



THE PINK. 

That rarer, fairer flower am I, 

I bud and bloom so gaily 
Here in mine arbour, tended by 

The heedful warden daily ; 
With clustering petals breathing out 
Voluptuous perfume round about, 
And thousand glowing colours shewing. 

THE COUNT. 

The brilliant Pink let no man slight, — 
The gardener's minion-floweret, 

Now must it bask in garish light, 
Now shadow must embower it; 

But such will never heal my woe ; 

Mine is a meek-eyed flower, and, though 

Serene and tender, hath no splendour. 

THE VIOLET. 

Uneyed and hidden here I bloom, 

Wrapped in communings lonely; 
Yet will I now. Sir Knight, presume 

To speak, though this time only. 
If I, the Violet, be thy flower, 
It grieves me that I want the power 
To lightly clamber tow'rds thy chamber. 

THE COUNT. 

I love the vestal Violet, 

Her odour and her colour, 
But even for her can ne'er forget 

My lonely doom of dolour. 



180 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Hear, friends, my mourufiil riddle right: 
In vain all round this rocky height 
I cast mine eye for what I sigh for. 

But far beneath, by streams and groves, 

Her bosom overladen 
With sorrow for my thraldom, roves 

Earth's truest-hearted maiden. 
And when she weeps my dreary lot, 
And plucks the blue Forget-Me-Not, 
It wakes Affection's recollections. 

For love like her's hath mystic might, 

"Which breathes through sundering distance ; 

And feeds, even in my dungeon's night 
My lamp of pale existence. 

And, when my heart would break, this thought 

Steals over it, Forget-Me-N"ot ! 

And I inherit Strength and Spirit. 



What white form is shimmering on yon lea? 

Is it snow, or is it swans we see ? 

Snow ? It would have melted in the ray. 

Swans ? Long since they must have flown away. 

Snow it is not ; swans it cannot be; 

'Tis the tent of Hassan Aga shining : 

There the wounded warrior lieth pining. 



GOETHE. 181 

Mother, sisters, all to tend him come ; 

But his wife, too shamefaced, weeps at home. 

"Wherefore, when his wounds were looking better, 
Sent he to the faithful one this letter — 
" Go ! Depart thee from my bed and door ; 
Bear my name and eat my bread no more." 

When the wife this bitter word received 
Oh ! her loving heart was pierced and grieved. 
Hark! a courser's tramping nears the house ; 
Is it Hassan comes, her lord and spouse ? 
So she deems, and, frenzied by her woe, 
Mounts the tower to cast herself below. 
Two dear daughters follow her anon, 
Tear-drops trickling down their faces wan. 
" This is not our father, mother dear ! 
'Tis our uncle Suleiman is here." 

Then the wife of Hassan Aga, turning. 

Clasps her brother's neck with tears and mourning. 

"Oh, my brother! how shall I survive 

This disgrace ? Oh, miserable me ! 

Such a black, black day as this to see ! 

Me, the mother of these helpless five !" 

But the brother, without word or pause. 
Stern of soul and countenance, — his course 
Fixed and changeless, — from his bosom draws 
Forth the fateful writing of divorce. 
Bound in silk and edged with damask border ; 
And aloud he reads the rigid order 
"Which again consigns her to her mother, 
Free to win and free to wed another. 
16 



182 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



For her choking grief she could not speak ; 
Both her girls she kissed upon the cheek, 
Both her hoys upon the brow she kissed, 
But she could not tear herself away 
From the babe that in the cradle lay ; 
So the brother dragged her out by force. 
And he placed her on his Arab horse. 
And away with her, like wind, from thence 
Galloped to his mother's residence. 

Now, ere seven days and nights were over, 
Many a stately lord and titled lover. 
Many a capitan, and bey, and noble, 
Came to woo the widow in her trouble. 

And of all these great and gallant men 
Fair Imoski's Cadi was the chief. 

Spake the mourner to her brother then. 
While she struggled with her tears and grief, 
" I adjure thee by these tears, my brother, 
Give me not in marriage to another. 
Lest, when once again my babes I see. 
This poor heart should break with agony." 

But the brother laughed her tears to scorn, 
"Plighted shalt thou be to-morrow morn. 
And the noon shall see the nuptial feast." — 
"Then, oh, brother! hear me now at least. 
Send this message to Imoski's Cadi — 
' Health and greetings from the widow lady. 



GOETHE. 183 

'Might the humblest of thy shives demand 
' One slight favour from thine honoured hand ? 
' When again thou visitest this place 
' Bring a veil to hide her form and face, 
'Lest, when passing Hassan Aga's door, 
' She behold her Httle ones once more.' " 

Thought the Cadi, " What she asks is meet." 

With the morn he summons all his suite, 
And the cavalcade, a glittering throng. 
Moves with music tow'rds the house along, 
He whom all as lord and master hail 
Bearing on his arm tlie silken veil. 

Safely have they now achieved their route, 
Safely have they led the veiled one out, 
Jewelled as becomes the Cadi's spouse ; 
But, alas ! they near the dreaded house. 
And the mother hears her children cry, 
"Mother! mother ! dost thou pass us by ? 
Wilt thou sit in stranger-halls? Ah! rather 
Come and eat thy bread with us and father!" 

This the mother heard with fond distress — 
Heavy was her heart, like heavy lead ; 
" May my lord live long !" she sadly said — 
" May his reverend shadow ne'er be less ! 
Bid, I pray thee, the procession wait 
One short moment at the Aga's gate. 
While I go and leave some keepsakes here. 
Robes and playthings for my children dear." 



184 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then once more witliin the well-known gate 
Doth she enter in her dress of state — 
Sees once more her little girls and boys, 
Gives them shining robes and gives them toys- 
Gives her daughters costly silks and suits, 
Gives her sons rich vests and gold-laced boots, 
Nor forgets the babe, but leaves it some 
Little socks and caps for years to come. 

l^ow the father saw all this aside. 
Saw she did not weep and did not speak ; 
And, with hollow voice and hollow cheek, 
Turning to his little ones, he cried — 
" Come to me, my children ! come to me ! 
For your mother's heart is turned to steel. 
Is as cold as stone, and cannot feel, 
Cannot feel for either me or ye." 

But when Hassan's widow heard Am speak, 
And beheld her offspring leaving her. 
On the floor she fell without a shriek, 
On the floor she lay without a stir. 
And her cruel grief no more had power, 
For the soul went out of her that hour. 



" What voice, what harp, are those we hear 

Beyond the gate in chorus? 
Go, page ! — the lay delights our ear, 

We'll have it sung before us!" 



GOETHE. 185 

So speaks the king : the stripling flies — 
He soon returns ; his master cries — 
"Bring in the hoary minstrel!" 

"Hail, princes mine! Hail, noble knights! 

AH hail, enchanting dames ! 
"What starry heaven ! What Winding lights ! 

Whose tongue may tell their names? 
In this bright hall, amid this blaze, 
Close, close, mine eyes ! Ye may not gaze 

On such stupendous glories!" 

The Minnesinger closed his eyes ; 

He struck his mighty lyre : 
Then beauteous bosoms heaved with sighs, 

And warriors felt on fire ; 
The king, enraptured by the strain, 
Commanded that a golden chain 

Be given the bard in guerdon. 

" Not so ! Eeserve thy chain, thy gold, 
For those brave knights whose glances, 

Fierce flashing through the battle bold, 
Might shiver sharpest lances ! 

Bestow it on thy Treasurer there — 

The golden burden let him bear 
"With other glittering burdens. 

" I sing as in the greenwood bush 

The cageless wild-bird carols — 
The tones that from the full heart gush 

Themselves are gold and laurels ! 
16* 



186 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Yet, might I ask, then thus I ask, 
Let one bright cup of wine in flask 
Of glowing gold be brought me!" 

They set it down : he quaffs it all — 
" ! draught of richest flavour ! 

O ! thrice divinely happy hall, 
Where that is scarce a favour ! 

If Heaven shall bless ye, think on me, 

And thank your God as I thank ye 
For this delicious wine-€up!" 



lignous ^01X0. 



O! DOST thou know the clime where citron fruits are 

blooming fair ? 
The gold-hued orange burns amid the dusky greenery 

there ; 
From skies of speckless blue are wafted airlets warm and 

soft ; 
There sleepy myrtles grow; there trees of laurel stand 

aloft. 

That bright land dost thou know ? 
Thither with thee, my love, I long to go. 

And dost thou know the Pile, with roof on colonnades 

reclining? 
The broad saloon is bright; tlie chambers there are darkly 

shining, 



GOETHE. 187 

And alabaster forms look down upon rae pityingly — 
" Alas, unLappy child ! what ill the world has done to 
thee!" 

That dwelling dost thou know ? 

Thither, protector mine, with thee I'll go. 

Knowest thou the mountain's brow ? Its pathway clouds 
and shadows cover: 

Amid the darkling mist the mule pursues his blind way 
over. 

The dragon and his brood lurk in its thousand cavern- 
hollows ; 

The rent rock topples down; the headlong sweep of 
waters follows. 

That mountain dost thou know ? 
Thither our way lies. Father ! let us go. 



A YiOLET in a valley dwelled ; 
It bloomed alone and unbeheld ; 
Ah ! 'twas a delicate vi'let ! 
A shepherd-maiden, blithe and young, 
With tripping foot and spirits gay, 
That way, that way. 
Came down the vale and sung. 

Ah ! wished the violet, would I were 
Let be some tiower of beauty rare ! 
Ah ! but one little while let ! 



188 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then, might I, culled by one so fair, 

Be softly in her bosom put, 

Ah ! but, ah ! but 

One little moment there ! 

But ah ! the damsel heeded not 

Its plaint, and as she passed the spot 

She crushed the helpless vi'let. 
It sank, and died with smothered sigh, 
"And though I die my death is sweet : 
I die, I die, 
By her and at her feet." 



Sick at heart and lank in purse, 
I dragged my snake-like days along ; 

Want is Man's reproach and curse, 
And Gold is Bliss — thus ran my song. 

So, to end my woes and pains, 
A treasure-crock I went to roll up ; 

Struck the sharp steel in my veins. 
And signed the bond that gave my soul up. 

Magic circles then I drew. 
And flaming hieroglyphics there ; 

Herbs and bones together threw. 
And spake the incantation prayer. 



GOETHE. 189 

Storms were blackening Midnight's face, 
But I fulfilled each godless duty ; 

Standing by the marked-out place, 
I sank my spade to dig the booty. 

Twelve o'clock ! Lo ! from afar 
Advancing swiftly through the darkling 

Midnight mist I marked a star 
Most luminously rare and sparkling. 

Wonder overpowered my soul : 
Then brightlier flashed the heavenly flood, 

And, in his hand a glittering bowl, 
A beauteous boy before me stood. 

Mildly gleamed his eyes of light ; 
With richest wreaths his brows were crowned; 

Haloed by the liquid bright 
He stepped within the circle's bound. 

Friendlily he bade me taste ; 
And then I thought, This child so fair. 

Light-begirt and mildness-graced. 
Hath surely scarce a daemon's air! 

" Drink at Life's upgushing wells ! 
Thus dost thou learn the manlier Science, 

Scorn those paltry spectre-spells, 
And bid thy nightmare cares defiance. 

Spend no more thy spirits here ; 
But, noonday tasks and evening pleasures, 

Weekdays labour, Sundays cheer, 
Bq these thy charm to conjure treasures I" 



190 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



Onoe a boy beheld a bright 

Kose in dingle growing ; 
Far, far off it pleased his sight ; 
Near he viewed it with delight : 

Soft it seemed and glowing. 
Lo ! the rose, the rose so bright, 

Rose so brightl}^ blowing! 

Spake the boy, " I'll pluck thee, grand 

Rose all wildly blowing." 
Spake the rose, " I'll wound thy hand, 
Thus the scheme thy wit hath planned 

Deftly overthrowing." 
O ! the rose, the rose so grand, 

Rose so grandly glowing. 

But the stripling plucked the red 

Rose in glory growing, 
A7id the thorn hisjlesh hath hled^ 
And the rose^s 2>J'ide isjled^ 

And her heauty''s going. 
"Woe ! the rose, the rose once red 

Rose once redly glowing. 



GOETHE. 191 



The waters rush, the waters roll ; a fisherman sits angling 

by; 
He gazes o'er their glancing floor Avith sleepy brow and 

listless eye ; 
And while he looks, and while he lolls, the flood is moved 

as by a storm, 
And slowly from its heaving depths ascends a humid 

woman's form. 



She sings, she speaks, — " Why lure, why wile, with human 

craft and human snare. 
My little ones, my helpless brood, to perish in this fiery 

air? 
Ah ! couldst thou guess the dreamy bliss we feel below 

the purple sea. 
Thou wouldst forsake the earth and all, to dwell beneath 

with them and me. 



"The moon, the sun, their travel done, come down to 

sleep in Ocean's caves ; 
They reascend their glorious thrones, with doubled beauty 

from the waves. 
Ah! sure the blue ethereal dew, the shining heaven these 

waters shew, 
Nay, even thine own reflected face must draw thee, win 

thee down below." 



192 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

The waters rush, the waters roll ; about his naked feet 

they move ; 
An aching longing fills his soul, as when we look on her 

we love. 
She sings to him, she speaks to him : alas ! he feels that 

all is o'er. 
She drags him down ; his senses swim ; the fisherman is 

seen no more ! 



i^e ^mg of f fetrk. 

Oh! true was his heart while he breathed, 

That King over Thule of old, 
So she that adored him bequeathed 

Him, dying, a beaker of gold. 

At banquet and supper for years has 

He brimmingly tilled it up, 
His eyes overflowing with tears as 

He drank from that beaker- cup. 

"When Death came to wither his pleasures 

He parcelled his cities wide, 
His castles, his lands, and his treasures, 

But the beaker he laid aside. 

They drank the red wine from the chalice, 
His barons and marshals brave; 

The monarch sat in his rock-palace 
Above the white foam of the wave. 



193 



And now, growing weaker and weaker 
He quaffed his last "Welcome to Death, 

And hurled the golden beaker 
Down into the flood beneath. 

He saw it winking and sinking, 
And drinking the foam so hoar ; 

The light from his eyes was shrinking, 
Nor drop did he ever drink more. 



g^ foke from iljc |nbisible Morlb. 

High o'er his mouldering castle walls 

The warrior's phantom glides. 
And loudly to the skiff it calls 

That on the billow rides — 

" Behold ! these arms once vaunted might, 
This heart beat wild and bold — 

Behold! these ducal veins ran bright 
With wine-red blood of old. 

" The noon in storm, the eve in rest, 

So sped my life's brief day. 
What then ? Young harlc on Ocean\ hremt. 

Cleave thou thy destined way P 
17 



1B4 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



Who is it rides across the dun 

And desolate wolds ? 
It is the father — and his son 

In his arms he holds : 
He rides through Night, he rides through storm, 

And from wild to wild, 
But in his mantle, wrapped up warm, 

He carries the child. 

THE FATHER. 

"My son, my son, why dost thou bow 
Thy head, as in fear?" 

THE SON. 

" O, father ! father ! seest not thou 

The Alder-King near? 
The Alder-King ! — he glares on me 

With his crown and trail !" 

THE FATHEE. 

" Hush \ hush ! my child — I only see 
The mist from the vale." 

THE SPEOTEE. 

"O, come with me, dear little boy! 

Come with me, O, come ! 
I've many a pretty play and toy 

For thee at mj home : 



GOETHE. 195 

Pied flowers are springing on the strand ; 

My mother, she, too. 
Shall weave thee dresses gay and grand 

Of a goldbright hue." 

THE SON. 

"List! father, Hst!— the Alder-King's 

Words creep on mine ear — 
He whispers me such wileful things ! 

0! dost thou not hear?" 

THE FATHER. 

"Peace, peace, my darling child! — be still! 

Thy hearing deceives. 
The wind at midnight whistles shrill 

Through the shrunken leaves." 

THE SPECTRE. 

" My charming babe ! dost hear me call ? 

Come hither to me ! 
Come, and my pretty daughters all 

Shall wait upon thee ; 
And they and thou so merrily 

Sliall dance and shall leap ; 
They'll play with thee and sing for thee, 

And rock thee asleep." 

THE SON. 

" O, father, look ! — O, father mine ! 

Descriest thou not 
His daughters? Look! — their garments shine 

From yon gloom}- spot!" 



196 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

THE FATHER. 

"My son! my son! thou dost but rave ; 

All night in that way 
One sees the long-armed willows wave 

So ancient and grey." 

THE SPECTRE. 

"Sweet child! I love thy comely shape, 

So come ! come away ! 
Nay ! nay ! thou shalt not thus escape ; 

I'll make thee obey." 

THE SON. 

"Ha, father! ha!— the Alder-King— 

He grasps me so tight ! 
Father! I've suffered some bad thing 

From his hand to-night." 

The father, shuddering, swiftly rides 

O'er the lightless wild, 
And closelier in his mantle hides 

The terrified child. 
With toil and pain he nears the gate, 

And reins in his horse — 
Unhappy father! — 'tis too latel 

In thine arms is a corse I 



GOETHE. 197 



gi ^on0 from ijjc Co|jlit. 

QuAERELS have long been in vogue among sages ; 

Still, though in many things wranglers and rancorous, 
All the philosopher-scribes of all ages 

Join, una voee^ on one point to anchor us. 
Here is the gist of their mystified pages, 

Here is the Avisdom we purchase with gold — 
Children of Light^ leave the icorld to its mulishness, 
Things to their natures^ and fools to their foolishness ; 

Berries were hitter in forests of old. 

Hoary old Merlin, that great necromancer, 
Made me, a student, a similar answer. 

When I besought him for light and for lore : 
Toiler in vain ! leave the world to its mulishness^ 
Things to their natures^ and fools to their foolishness ; 

Granite was hard in the quarries of yore. 

And on the ice-crested heights of Armenia, 
And in the vallies of broad Abyssinia, 

Still spake the Oracle just as before : 
Wouldst thou have2yeace,, leave the world to its mulishness. 
Things to their natures^ and fools to their foolishness ; 

Beetles were Mind in the ages of yore. 
17* 



198 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



giHotljcr Coptic ^0110. 

Go! — but heed and understand 
This my last and best command : 
Turn thine Youth to such advantage 
As that no reverse shall daunt Age. 
Learn the serpent's wisdom early ; 
And contemn what Time destroys; 
Also, wouldst thou creep or climb, 
Chuse thy role, and chuse in time, 
Since the scales of Fortune rarely 
Shew a liberal equipoise. 
Thou must either soar or stoop^ 
Fall or triumjjh^ stand or droop ; 
Thou must either serve or govern^ 
Must he slave^ or must he sovereign; 
Must^ injine^ he hlock or wedge^ 
Must he anvil or he 



gilt Irblj famenlation. 

O ! EAisE the woeful Pillalu^ 

And let your tears in streams be shed; 
Och^ orro^ orro^ ollalu! 

The Master's eldest hope is dead ! 

Ere broke the morning dim and pale 
The owlet flapped his heavy wing : 



GOETHE. 



199 



We heard the winds at evening wail, 
And now our dirge of death we sing, 
Och^ orro^ orro^ ollalu ! 

Why wouldst thou go? How couldst thou die? 

Why hast thou left thy parents dear ? 
Thy friends, thy kindred far and nigh, 

Whose cries, mo vronel thou dost not hear? 
OcTi^ orro^ orro^ ollalu ! 

Thy mother, too!— how could she part 
From thee, her darling fair and sweet, 

The heart that throbbed within her heart, 
The pulse, the blood that bade it beat ? 
Och^ orro^ orro^ ollalu ! 

Oh ! lost to her and all thy race. 

Thou sleepest in the House of Death; 

She sees no more thy cherub face. 

She drinks no more thy violet breath; 
Och^ orro^ orro, ollalu! 

By strand and road, by field and fen, 
The sorrowing clans come thronging all ; 

From camp and dun, from hill and glen. 
They crowd around the castle wall. 
Oeh^ orro^ orro^ ollalu! 

From East and West, from South and North, 
To join the funeral train they hie; 

And now the mourners issue forth. 
And far they spread the keening cry, 
Och^ orro^ orro^ ollalu ! 



200 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then raise the woeful Pillalu^ 

And let your tears in streams be shed, 

Och,, orro, oj^ro^ ollalu ! 
The Chieftain's pride, his heir, is dead. 



FRIEDRICH GOTTLIEB KLOPSTOCK. 



[One night, in 1748, Klopstock, was seated alone in his room in the University st 
Leipsic, He was deeply immersed in meditation on the Past and the Future. 
Suddenly a thought, isolated and dreary in its character, appears to have taken pos- 
session of his mind. He fancied that some iinkno wn indi vidual had been reft by death 
of his nearest and dearest, of all his friends and his beloved, and so stood alone in 
the world. Involuntarily his imagination called up and marshalled before him 
the Appearances of the Departed. They came, a shrouded and shadowy groupe, 
and surrounded the Living Man ; and then it was that the poet, as he earnestly 
contemplated them, found that he had suffered a forfeiture of his proper identity ; 
for he himself was now that other Man, and the Appearances he gazed on wore the 
forms and lineaments of his own literary friends. The vision lasted but a brief 
•while, and when the spell was broken, Klopstock started as from a dream •, but 
so vivid was the impression that remained with him, that he ever afterwards re- 
garded what he had seen as a kind of pictorial revelation, a prophetical figure- 
history of his own destiny. We are now to fancy him over a flask of wine with 
his fellow-student Johann Arnold Ebert. With every glass their gaiety grows 
wilder and wilder. Suddenly Klopstock covers his face with his hands : the rec- 
cUectioa of his vision has intervened, and brings with it gloom and anguish.] 

Ebekt, Ebert, my friend ! Here over the darkbright 
wine 

A horrible phantasy masters me ! 
In vain thou sliewest me where the chaliceglasses shine, 

In vain tliy words ring cheerily: 



KLOl'STOCK. 201 

I must aside and weep — if Jiaply my weeping may 

Assuage this agony of distress. 
O, tears ! in pity Nature blent you with human clay, 

To mitigate human wretchedness ; 
For, were your fountain uplocked, and you forbidden to 
flow, 

Could Man sustain his sorrows an hour ? 
Then let me aside and weep : this thought of dolour and 
woe 

Struggles within me with giant power. 



O, Ebert ! if all have perished, and under shroud and pall 

Lie still and voiceless in Death's abyss — 
If thou and I be the lone and withered survivors of all? 

Art not thou, also, speechless at this ? 
Glazes not horror thine eye ? Glares it not blank with- 
out soul ? 

So from mine, too, departed the light, 
When first this harrowing phantom over the purple bowl 

Struck my spirit with thundermight. 
Sudden as when a wanderer, hastening home to the faces 

That circle with smiles his joyous hearth. 
To his blooming offspring and spouse, whom already in 
thought he embraces. 

By the tempest-bolt is felled to the earth, 
Deathstricken, so that his bones are blasted to blackest 
ashes. 

The while in triumph is heard to roll 
The booming thunder through Heaven, so suddenly 
flashed, so flashes 

This vision athwart my shuddering soul, 



202 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Deadening the might of mine arm, and darkening the 
light of mine eyes, 
And shrivelling the flesh of mj' heart with despair. 



O! in the depth of the Night I saw the Death-Pageant 
arise ! 
And — Ebert! — the sonls of our friends were there. 
O! in the depths of the Night I saw the Graves laid 
bare ! 
Around me thronged the immortal Band ! 



When gentle Giseke's eye no longer its lustre shall wear; 

When faithful Cramer, lost to our land, 
Shall moulder in dust ; when the words that Gaertner 
and Rabner have spoken 
Shall only be echoed through years in distance; 
When every sweetlysounding chord shall be ruefully 
broken 
In the noble Gellert's harmonious existence ; 
When his early companions of pleasure young Rothe, the 
social and bright, 
Shall meet on the charnel chamber-floor. 
And when from a longer exile^ ingenious Schlegel shall 
write 
To the cherished friends of his youth no more; 
Wlien for Schmidt, the beloved and evanished, these 
weariful eyes shall weep 
No lonjyer their wonted aftectionate rain: 



1 Schlegel, on quitliiig college, had gone to Strehla, and there established an 
academy, from whence he corresponded with his friends, the members of the Poet- 
ical Club at Leipzig. This residence of his at Strehla they were playfully wont to 
designate his exile. By a longer exile, Klopstock, of course, means Death. 



KLOPSTOCK. 203 

When IIagedorx at last in our Father's bosom shall 
sleep ; 
Oh, Ebert! what then are We who remain? 
W^hat but Woe-consecrated, whom here a dreary doom 

Has left to mourn for those that are gone ? 
If then one of us should die (Behold how my thought of 
gloom 
Further and darklier hurries me on !) 
If then, of us, one should die, and One alone should 
survive — 
And oh, should that sad survivor be I — 
If she, the unknown Beloved, with whom I am destined 
to wive, 
If she, too, under the mould should lie ! 



If I be the Only, the Lonely, the earth's companionless 
One, 
Oh, answer! Shalt thou, my undying soul. 
For friendship created, shalt thou preserve thy feehng and 
tone. 
In the days that then may vacantly roll ? 
Or shalt thou, in slumberful stupor, imagine that Day- 
light is passed, 
And the reign of Night has begun for thee? 
Haply ! but shouldst thou upstart, oh, immortal spirit, at 
last. 
And feel all the weight of thy misery. 
Wilt thou not, suffering spirit, in agony shriekingly call 

To tlie sepulchres where thy Sleepers are — 
"• Oh ! ye graves of my Dead ! Ye tombs of my dearest 
ones all ! 
Why ure ye severed apart so far? 



204 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Why not 1-ather ingrouped in the blossomy valleys 
yonder, 
Or clustered in groves, or flowercrovvned ? 
Guide an exi)iring old man ! With faltering feet will I 
wander 
And plant upon every hallowed mound 
A cypresstree, beneath whose yet undarkening shade 

May rest my happier daughters and sons, 
And oft through its boughs at night shall stand before rae 
portrayed 
The effigies of my immortal ones ! 
Till, worn with w^eeping, I too shall finally join those 
immortals ; 
Then, oh ! Grave, beside which I shall be ! 
Grave over which I shall die ! — I call on thee — open thy 
portals, 
And hide for ever my tears and me !" 



Horrible dream ! from which, as in chains, I struggle to 
waken. 

Terrible as the Judgment-hour, 
And as Eternity solemn ! My spirit, appalled and shaken, 

Can wrestle no longer against thy power. 



01^0 §mlxt, an Ijis beparturc from College. 

Go ! I stifle my grief — Adieu to thee, friend ! Though 
tears 
May without shame be shed by the manliest natures, 

yet go ! 



KLOPSTOCK. 205 

"Were I to weep for thee now, alas ! to my latest years 
Mj tears as a drainless fountain for ever and ever 
should flow ! 
For so All shall sever from All in this hollow Yalley of 

Mourning, 
One away after another, departing and never returning. 
So doth imperial Death the bride and her hridegroom 
sunder. 
Groaningly sinks the man into the tempested wave., 
While snows are drearily drifting above the woman., who., 
under 
Carcases., wrecTcs., and sands., found on the beach her 
grave ! 
So sleep the aslies of Homer far., far from where Milton's 
bones 
Lie whitening day after day in the stillness of sioeltering 
noon : 
Never., oh! never shall mingle the icidely-divided tones 
Of the dirgeiDinds over their graves., lohere cypress-leaves 
are streicn. 
So wrote the Eternal I AM the doom of each and of all 
On walls of marble and brass, and hung the curtaining 

pall 
Of fathomless mystery, and inviolate silence before it — 
Blest be the will of the Highest! Low in the dust I 

adore it. 
Go, my beloved companion I The friends thou wilt leave 
so lonely 
Tearlessly, even as I, perchance may behold thee go — 
Unless they silently weep the tears of the sick soul 
only. 
Tears that strangers to friendship and generous thought 
cannot know. 

18 



206 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Tarry not longer, my friend ! but hasten from hence to 
renew 
Thy friendship with Hagedoen ; and when thou en- 
joy est the bliss 
Of meeting that excellent man — ! wilt thou assure 
him of this — 
That, warm as thy love for him is, mine own is as warm 
for him too ! 



I WELCOME thee, silvery Moon, 
Lovely, lonely Queen of the Summer-night ! 
Friend of Thought, wilt thou flee? Ah, return to me 

soon ! 
Lo, she abides! — tlie cloud alone passes from sight. 

Than Night in the Summer-time 
Nought is diviner, save the awaking of May, 
When she comes o'er the hills from her own orient clime, 
Dews begemming, like Light, her locks all the bright 
way. 

Alas, on your graves, ye True, 
Already tall weeds and wild flowers intertwine ! 
Oh, how blest felt I once, while as yet I with you 
Saw the Day redden at dawn, saw the starry Night 
shine ! 



HERDER. 207 



JOHANN GOTTFRIED VON HERDER. 



Unto Grailov's town Moostafa-Shera 
Mkhmud Pasba, the redoubted warrior, 
Marched in thunder. He threw down tlie barrier 

Of its brazen gates, and trampled them 

Into dust. And, at the sunset hour, 
Forty of his Agas ate white bread 

In the Hospodar of Grailov's tower; 

And, when they had eaten much, they said, 

" AUah akbar ! — let us have some water 
Brought in crystal vases !" But none other 
Understood their Scytho-Turkish words 

Save the Hospodar's majestic daughter; — 

And the Hospodar's majestic daughter. 

Turning to her mother, called out, "Mother! 
Water, quickly, for these Moslem lords!" 

And the water came in crystal vases ; 

And all drank except the young Abassiz. 

He drank not ; but turning towards the mother. 

Said, " May Allah bless thee, courteous dame ! 
Would I were thy lovely daughter's brother! 

Will she greet me by a fonder name, 
That of husband?" And the mother spake. 



208 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" If thou jest not, princely Kapitaun, 
I feel sorry for thy noble sake, 
But my daughter has been plighted long 

Unto Carlodzniep of Orlovaun, 
Whose hot blood would burn beneath a wrong. 

Three new suits of scarlet silk he gave her, 
Three deep coffers full of yellow gold. 
Three rare diamonds glorious to behold. 
Gems whose lustre lends our night-saloon 
Radiance brighter than the sun's at noon ; 

All these gifts her generous lover gave her, 
Wherefore, Aga, spare thy flattering speech, 
For this fruit hangs high beyond thy reach ; 

Maiden once betrothed may not waver." 

Sorrow sank like lead into the core 

Of Abassiz' heart. He said no more, 

Said no more, and closed no eye that night, 

But, with Morning's palest blush of light, 

Up he rose, and sighing deeply, went 

Straightway to the Pasha Mahmud's tent ; 

And his words were, " Mighty Lord and Master, 

May your highness reign a thousand years! 

Lo ! a maiden, whose bright eyes are spears, 
Paulinell, the fair-as-alabaster 
Daughter of Smolensk, the Hospodar, 

AVho transcendeth every damsel here. 
As the moon outshines each paler star. 
Speaks our language with a silver tongue. 

Yet hath been affianced many a year 

Unto Carlodzniep of Orlovaun ! 
Will Your Highness tolerate such wrong. 

While one Moslem sword remains undrawn?" 



209 



Thus he spake, made mad by Love's disease ; 
So the Pasha, on the self-same day, 

Bade be called Smolensk, the Hospodar, 
And the Pasha's words to him were these, 
" Allah kerini ! What is this they say ? 
So thou hast a daughter, Hospodar, 
"Who transcendeth every maid beside, 

As the moon outshines each paler star? — 
It is well ! Thy child shall be my bride !" 

Spake the noble father in reply, 

"Beautiful ray daughter is, in truth, 
Beautiful and gentle as the fawn ; 
But her hand is not for thee to buy: 

Promised is she to the gallant youth, 
Carlodzniep, the Lord of Orlovaun. 

Three new suits of scarlet silk he gave her, 
Three deep coffers full of yellow gold, 
Three rare diamonds glorious to behold, 
Gems whose lustre lends our night-saloon 
Radiance brighter than the sun's at noon ; 

All these gifts her generous lover gave her. 
Wherefore, Pasha, spare thy flattering speech, 
For this fruit hangs high beyond thy reach ; 

Maiden once betrothed must not waver." 

Silently the Pasha heard the father, 

Silently he heard him to the end ; 
Museful then, as one who seeks to gather 
In his wandering thoughts, he stood, but soon 

Looking up, spake thus, " Well, then, my friend, 
Hearken calmly : I must ask a boon. 
18* 



210 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

As thy daughter's heart may still be free, 
Fetch her hither with her lordly lover. 
So shall thou and I anon discover 

Which the maiden chooseth, him or me." 

There he stopped. The father, sad in soul. 
Went his way. The gloomiest hodings crept 
O'er his upright mind ; and, ere he slept 
Sent he off to Carlodzniep a scroll — 
" Health and Honour ! Be alert, my son. 

Else the Pasha robs thee of the bride 
Thou hast fondly wooed and fairly won! 

Rise with Morning's dawn and come to me; 
Thou and. I and Paulinell must ride 
Over to the Pasha's tent, and there 
Shall the maiden's own true lips declare 
Which her heart preferreth, him or thee." 

He to whom this warning word was written, 
Carlodzniep, the Lord of Orlovaun, 
Slept not all that night, but, with the dawn. 
Fiercely bounding, like a frenzy-smitten 
Man, upon his deathblack barb, he rode 
Till he reached the Hospodar's abode. 

And, before the noontide hour went by, 
Stood beside the maiden and her sire 
In the Pasha's tent, — a strange dusk fire 
Flashing at each moment from his eye. 

Brief the Pasha's words were, frank and brief: 
"Fairest maiden in this northern land, 
Lo ! two suitors for thy heart and hand, 

One a Servian, one an Othman, Chief, 



HERDER. 211 

Carlodzniep and I. Th}- will is free. 

Choose, then, maiden, either one or other : 
Choose whiche'er thou wiliest, him or me." 

And the maiden (her manceuvring mother 
Having schooled her overnight) at once 
In unfaltering accents made response — 

"Rather this green grass with thee, my lord. 
Rather thee with only wheat and milk. 
Than red wines and beds of damask silk 

With a husband of my heart abhorred!" 

Here was perfidy! The lightning blood 

Froze within the young man's breast and brain 
As he listened. For a space he stood 

Marble-motionless. But, soon again 
All the warrior's pride re-nerved his heart. 
And he spake, "False girl! Thus, then, we part! 
For this base betrayal was I born ! 
Be it so! — thy meed is henceforth Scorn. 
Were thine hand mine trebly I would spurn it 

As a foul, polluted, leprous thing. 

Give me back my presents ! — that gold ring 
On thy finger once was mine : return it! 
I would leave thee fetterless and free 
In thy bargain — and thine infamy!" 

And the maiden, without word or look, 
Yielding, slavelike, to the stern command. 

Without love, or hate, or anger, took 

Ofi'the ring and held it out, — when, lo ! 

Carlodzniep, with one swift sabre-blow, 
Severed from her arm that guilty hand! 



212 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And then spake, with calm, but hollow tone — 
"Pasha! /have taken what is mine — 
Now take tliou the remnant — it is thine — 

Justice metes to every one his own/' 

AVrathful was the Pasha. " What!" he cried, 

'' Wretch ! — thou sheddest blood at my Deewaun ? 
Mount thy charger ! Thou and I must ride 
Forth to instant combat!" So they rode, 
Mkhmud and the Lord of Orlovaun, 
Out upon the upland. Nor abode 
Long in doubt the issue of the strife. 
For the Moslem, in his prime of life. 

Perished by the arm of Carlodzniep, 
Whose avenging sabre then and there 
Clave both man and saddle. But the slayer 
Never more was known to smile, — or weep. 



^\t irot^er anb lljc lister. 

In a winding dell, thick-sown with flowers, 
Often played together through the hours 
Of the live-long sunny Summer's day, 
Two most lovely children, one a boy, 
One a girl, a sister and a brother; 
And along with them did ever play 
Innocence, and Gracefulness, and Joy. 



213 



Here there stood an image of the Mother 
Of our Blessed Saviour, with her Child 
In her arms, who ahvays looked and smiled 

On the playmates : And their own dear mother 
One day told them, after they had played, 

Who the smiling httle Infant was; 
How He Avas the mighty God, who made 

Sun, and Moon, and Earth, and the green grass. 
And themselves; and, wlien she saw them moved 

With deep reverence, and their childish mirth 
Hushed, she told them how this God had loved 

Little children when He dwelled on Earth, 
And that now in Heaven he loved them still. 

And the little girl said, " I and brother 

Both love God: will he love us, too, mother?" 
And the mother said, " If you be good, He will." 

So, upon another time, a bland. 

Bright, soft. Summer-evening, as the fair 

Children sat together hand-in-hand. 

One said to the other, ('twas the boy 
To the girl,) " Oh, if the dear God there 

Would come down to us ! There's not a toy 

In our house but I would give to him." 
And the girl said, "I would cull him all 
Pretty flowers." " And I would climb the tall 

Trees," the boy said, "till the day grew dim, 

And would gather fruits for him." And thus 

Each sweet child did prattle to the otlier. 
Till the sun sank low behind the hill. 

And both, running, then sought out their mother, 
And cried out together, "Mother! — will 

God come down some day and play with us ?" 



214 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Gently spake the mother in rebuke 

Of their babble ; but it bore a deep 
Meaning in the eternal Minutebook ; 

For, one night, soon after, in her sleep, 
She beheld the Infant-Saviour playing 
With her children, and she heard Him saying, 
" How shall I requite you for the flowers 

And the fruits you would have given me ? Thee, 

Brother, will I take along with me. 

To my Father's many-mansioned Home, 
And will guide thee to luxuriant bowers. 

Where bloom fruits unknown on Earth beneath ; 
And to thee, my sister, will I come 

On thy bridal-day, and with a wreath 
Of celestial flowers adorn thy brow. 
And will bless thy nuptials, so that thou 
Shalt have children good and innocent even 
As my Father's angels are in Heaven." 

And the mother woke, and prayed with tears, 
"Oh, my God! my Saviour! spare my son! 

Spare him to console my waning years. 
If thou canst ! If not. Thy will be done !" 

And the will of God was done. The boy 
Sickened soon and died. But, ere he died 
Those about him saw his countenance 
Lighted up with gloriousness and joy 
Inexpressible ; for, by his side 

He beheld (rapt all the while in trance, 
As his motlier noticed,) a young Child 
Brighter than the sun and beauteous as 
God Himself! 



HERDER. 216 

Year after year did pass, 
And at length her twentieth Summer smiled 
On the maiden with her wedding-day ; 
But, behold ! — as she knelt down to pray 
At the altar, heavenly radiance beamed 
Round her, and she saw, as though she dreamed, 
Him, her childhood's Infant-Saviour, reaching 

Her a wreath of brilliant flowers, with some 
Dark ones intermixed : a symbol, teaching 

Her what hue the years that were to come 
Should assume for her. And truly, she 

Spent a life of peace and blessedness, 
Mingled with such mild adversity 

That she rather wished it more than less. 



A DANISH BALLAD. 

Sir Olf rode fast towards Thurlston's walls. 
To meet his bride in his father's halls. 

He saw blue lights flit over the graves ; 

The Elves came forth from their forest-caves. 

They danced anear on the glossy strand. 

And the Erl-King's Daughter held out her hand. 

"0, welcome, Sir Olf, to our jubilee ! 
Step into the circle and dance with me." 



216 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" I dare not dance, I dare not stay ; 
To-morrow will be my nuptial-day." 

" Two golden spurs will I give unto thee, 
And I pray thee, Sir Olf, to tarry with me." 

" I dare not tarry, I dare not delay, 
To-morrow is fixed for my nuptial-day." 

" Will give thee a shirt so white and fine. 
Was bleached yestreen in the new moonshine." 

" I dare not hearken to Elf or Fay ; 
To-morrow is fixed for my nuptial-day." 

"A measure of gold will I give unto thee, 
And I pray thee, Sir Olf, to dance with me." 

" The measure of gold I will carry away. 
But I dare not dance, and I dare not stay." 

" Then, since thou wilt go, even go with a blight ! 
A true-lover's token I leave thee. Sir Knight." 

She lightly struck with her wand on his heart, 

And he swooned and swooned from the deadly smart. 

She lifted him up on his coal-black steed ; 
"Now hie thee away with a fatal speed!" 

Then shone the moon, and howled the wolf. 
And the sheen and the howl awoke Sir Olf. 

He rode over mead, he rode over moor. 
He rode till he rode to his own house-door. 



HERDER. 217 

Within sate, white as tlie marble, his bride, 

But his greyhaired mother stood watching outside. 

*' My son, my son, thou art haggard and wan ; 
Thy brow is the brow of a dying man." 

" And haggard and wan I well may be. 

For the Erl-King's Daughter hath wounded me." 

" I pray thee, my son, dismount and bide : 
There is mist on the eyes of thy pining bride." 

" 0, mother, I should but drop dead from my steed ; 
I will wander abroad for the strength I need." 

" And what shall I tell thy bride, my son. 

When the morning dawns and the tiring is done ?" 

-' O, tell my bride that I rode to the wood. 
With my hound in leash and my hawk in hood." 

When morning dawned with crimson and grey, 
The bride came forth in her wedding aiTay. 

They poured out mead, they poured out wine : 
"Now, where is thy son, O, goldmother mine?" 

" My son, golddaughter, rode into the wood. 
With his hounds in leash and his hawk in hood." 

Then the bride grew sick with an ominous dread — 
" 0, woe is me, Sir Olf is dead." 

She drooped like a lily that feels the blast. 
She drooped, and drooped, till she died at last. 
19 



218 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

They rest in the charnel side by side, 
The stricken Sir Olf and his faithful bride. 

But the Erl-King's Daughter dances still, 
When the moonlight sleeps on the frosted hill. 



CHRISTOPH AUGUST TIEDGE. 



Jforgd mt Wot 

TO MARIANNE. 

ToRGET me not, Beloved ! when, far and far away, 

I float, a leaf, along the world's wide sea : 
"When flowers bestrcAV thy path and zephyrs round thee 
play 
Let that fond heart of thine remember me. . 
The roses nigh thy window-cells will blow ; 
The morning sun will shine, the evening stars will glow ; 
The moon's blue beams will tremble on the grot, 
And I afar. Forget me not ! 

Forget me not when in the gorgeous hall 

Thy light steps move where Youth and Beauty bloom ; 
Forget me never when the curtain-pall 

Of Eve shall robe thy lonesome bower in gloom. 
"When, Heaven's dim veil uprolled, the starry kingdom 

gleams. 
And when thy spirit soars and mingles with its beams, 



TIEDGE. 219 

I too shall glance above, and this shall he my thought — 
Loved Marianne, Forget me not! 

Forget me not when Spring is newly flowering, 

When Nature, garland-crowned, spealvs with divinest 
voice. 
And strikes thine eye with loveliness o'erpowering, 

And bids thy gentle spirit in its depths rejoice. 
Forget me not when Summer-days draw nigh, 
When, like so many fragments of the mild blue sky. 
Young violets shall whisper from each bowery spot, 
" Forget me not ! Forget me not!" 

Forget me not when Memory sweetly lingers 

On that loved haunt, by both remembered well, 
The spot where first I touched- thy fairy fingers — 

Remember, Marianne, the darkling pine-tree dell ! 
What happiness was mine when first I pressed 
Thy hand, and dared to raise it to a breast 
Wherein that warm pulse beats which now dictates thia 
thought — 

"Oh, Marianne, Forget me not!" 

Forget me not when sauntering by that lone 

Gate which the tall wild weeds encircle wreathingly, 
Where oft I hung upon thine every tone 

As on the chaliced flowrets hangs the amorous bee : 
The echo of thy words then died away in distance, 
Not so the soul they breathed — that lives in green exist- 
ence 
Deep in a heart with thy dear image fraught — 
Then, Marianne, Forget me not ! 



220 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Where droops the cypress, there my spirit hovers, 
Beside that grave which once we loitered nigh. 
The pale day sank, too drearily for lovers, 

But Holiness and Peace were in thy soul and eye. 
The spirit of thy mother blessed thee then, oh, maiden ! 
Thy heart felt tranquillized, while mine, alas ! was 

laden 
With many a dark foreshadowing of my future lot — 
Yet, Marianne, Forget me not ! 

Eememberest thou the evening? Thoughts that speech 
expresses 
So vaguely and so ill were swelling in thy bosom; 
The stirless Autumn airs forebore to woo thy tresses ; 
There was no moaning voice that night on flower or 
blossom. 
The holy cypresses with tear-like dews were wet : 
Canst thou, my Marianne, that thrilling hour forget ? 
Ah! then these burning words, too, from thy memory 
blot— 

"My Marianne, Forget me not!" 

What there absorbed my mind and all my mind-born 
powers 
Shews clear and pure and placid as the enamelled 
Night, 
Which then shone down upon those consecrated hours. 

Hours garnered in my memory as her best delight. 
That strong and calm devotion which ennobled Love, 
And saved from wronging stain the sacred garland of 
Homage I proffered then to Virtue, Truth, and thee — 
Then, Marianne, Remember me ! 



HEDGE. 221 

That strong and calm devotion sanctifies me now : 
Oh ! ne'er in saintly bosom burned a holier glow 
Than mine, when, whitely veiling thy too radiant brow, 
Thou camest, as from Heaven, to illume dark Earth 
below. 
Thus hover o'er me still through my long night of years, 
And, like a dazzling vision born of loftier spheres. 
Hallow the hour in which my last, last sigh shall be, 
"O, Marianne, Remember me!" 

Not in the smile — not in the favouring glance — 
Not in the enthralling magic of thy greeting — 
Not in that queenly form transcending all romance, 

"Which rose where slim young boughs and blossom 
gauze were meeting — 
Not in the fascinating graces of thy mien 
The enchantment lay ; — the Mind, that melodist unseen. 
First woke the chord of Love which now breathes whis- 
peringly— 

" My Marianne, Remember me." 

This high existence — this ethereal essence — 
This wonder-sphere of harmonies Elysian, 
Whose rays encircle thee with fadeless presence. 

This, only this shall live unwaning in my vision. 
There blow those airs of peace whose breath is Paradise, 
There virtues, flower-like, breathe rich incense to the skies. 
Those skies from whence a voice shall shortly sigh to 
thee — 

"Ah, Marianne, Remember me!" 

Peace round thee be ! But tenfold woe to those 
"Who waken anguish in a heart like thine, 
19* 



222 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

A heart like thine, whose every feeling glows 

With goodness and benevolence divine : 
Who shall debar me from the throne I claim 
In that exalted Heaven? Ah ! might my noteless name 
Be with this lay of love before thy memory brought! 
My Marianne, Forget me not ! 

Here, underneath the greenery of the vine. 

My hand and heart have reared a monument to thee ! 
Here oft I sweetly dream, oft sadly pine, 

But all my thoughts are born for Immortality, 
For they are all of thee ; and Lethe shall not sweep 
Such treasure to her caves, and least of all that deep 
And everburning wish wherewith my soul is fraught — 
Oh, Marianne, Forget me not ! 

Still fair, still fragrant live the white flowers wreathed 

Around my temples by thy whiter hand. 
What time thou sawest from this fond bosom breathed 

The emotion I no longer could command, 
And sawest it in the cheek that redly glowed, 
And sawest it in the tears that hotly flowed. 
Blest tears ! which more than Speech and more than lyre 
have taught ; 

Then, Marianne, Forget me not ! 

By all those things, the dell, the glorious hill. 
The brilliant flowers we gathered on its peak, 

The winds that played among thy locks at will, 
And wantoned with the roses on thy cheek. 

By the decaying sunset's latest look of love. 

Which lifted thy pure heart in voiceless prayer above, 



223 



And by my Last Farewell, if in its tones lay aught, 
I call on thee — Forget me not ! 

By the faint echoes borne from that sweet time 

When every glowing day slept in a lair of flowers, 
By all those reminiscences sublime 

That float like bright-haired shadows from Elysian 
bowers. 
By all thou art and wert, by all thy faith and feeling. 
By that deep humbleness -v^hich, studiously concealing 
Its own imperial worth, twines wreaths for others ever, 
I call on thee — Forget me never! 

And when, at eve, thou wanderest down the glen, 

What time the boding night-bird chants his lay of 
death. 
Ah! then, perchance, and for the last time then, 

These lips shall bless thy name with faltering breath ; 
Then, when the winds shall waft the tidings on their 

wings. 
And the dark pine-trees round thee groan, like living 

things, 
Then wilt thou feel my heart hath broken with this 
thought — 

"Loved Marianne, Forget me not!" 



224 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



Day is exiled from the Land of Twilight ; 

Leaf and flower are drooping in the wood, 
And the stars, as on a dark-stained skylight, 

Glass their ancient glory in the flood. 
Let me here, where night-winds through the yew sing, 

Where the moon is chary of her beams, 
Consecrate an hour to mournful musing 

Over Man and Man's delirious dreams. 
Pines and yews ! envelope me in deeper, 

Dunner shadow, sombre as the grave, 
While with moans, as of a troubled sleeper. 

Gloomily above my head ye wave ; 
Let mine eye look down from hence on yonder 

Battle-plain, which Night in pity dulls ; 
Let my sad imagination ponder 

Over Kunnersdorf, that Place of Sculls ! 

Dost thou reillume those wastes, O, Summer ? 

Hast thou raised anew thy trampled bowers ? 
Will the wild bee come again a hummer 

Here, within the houses of thy flowers ? 
Can thy sunbeams light, thy mild rains water 



1 Kunnersdorf, a village near Frankfort on the Oder, where Frederick was de- 
feated by the Russians, on the 12th of August, 1759, in one of the bloodiest battles 
of modern times. 



TIEDGE. 225 

Since that dark day of redundant slaughter 
When the blood of men flowed here like oil ? 

Ah, yes ! — Nature, and thou, God of Nature, 
Ye are ever bounteous ! Man alone, 

Man it is whose frenzies desolate your 



Here saw Frederick fall his bravest warriors — 

Master of thy World, thou wert too great ! 
Heaven had need to establish curbing-barriers 

'Gainst thine inroads on the World of Fate. 
Oh, could all thy coronals of splendor 

Dupe thy memory of that ghastly ^ay ? 
Gould the Graces, could the Muses^ render 

Smooth and bright a corse-o'ercovered way ? 
No ! the accusing blood-beads ever trickle 

Down each red leaf of thy chaplet-crown : — 
Men fell here as corn before the sickle. 

Fell to aggrandise thy false renown ! 
Here the veteran dropped beside the springald ; 

Here sank Strength and Symmetry in line : 
Here crushed Hope and gasping Yalor mingled ; 

And, Destroyer, the wild work was thine I 
Whence is then this destiny funereal ? 

What this tide of Being's flow and ebb ? 
Why rends Death at will the fine material 

Of Existence's divinest web ? 
Vainly ask we ! Dim age calls to dim age ; 

Answer, save an echo, cometh none : 
Here stands Man, of Life-in-Death an image, 

There^ invisibly, the Living One ! 

1 An allusion to Frederick's literary pursuits. 



226 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Storm-clouds lour and muster in the Distance; 

Girt with wrecks by sea and wrecks by land, 
Time, upon the far Shore of Existence, 

Counts each wave-drop swallowed by the sand. 
Generation chases generation, 

Down-bowed by the all-worn, imworn yoke :^ 
N"o cessation and no explication ! — 

Birth — Life — Death ! — the Silence, Flashy and 
Smoke. 

Here, then, Frederick, formidable sovereign ! 

Here, in presence of these whitened bones, 
Swear at length to cherish Peace, and govern 

So that men may learn to reverence thrones ! 
O, repudiate blood-bought fame, and hearken 

To the myriad witness-voiced Dead, 
Ere the Sternness shall lay down, to darken 

In the Silentness, thy crownless head !' 
Shudder at the dire phantasmagory 

Of the slain, who perished here through thee ; 
And abhor all future wreaths of glory 

Gathered from the baleful cypress-tree ! 

Lofty souls disdain or dread the laurel : 
Hero is a mad exchange for Man : 



1 The yoke which all wear, but none wear out. 

2 Vor dem Ernste, der dein Ilaupt, entflrstet, 
In die SiiUe niedeilegen wird. 

Before to the Solemn who thy head, unprinced, in the StiUi/ beneath lay shall ; 
viz.. Before the [coming of the] solemn [hour] which shall lay thy head, stripped ol 
its royalty, in the still [ness of the grave.] I have adhered to the metonymy, save 
that I have chosen to make der Ernste represent Death himself rather than the 
time of death ; the Sternness, therefore, is Death, and the Silentness the grave. 



22*7 



Adders lurh in green spots : siicli the moral 

Tauglit by History since her schools began. 
Cassar slain, the victim of his trophies, 

Bajazet expiring in his cage, 
All the Caesars, all the sabre- Sophies,* 

Preach the self-same homily each age. 
One drugged wine-cup dealt with Alexander; 

And his satraps scarce had shared afresh 
Half the empires of the World-commander 

Ere the charnel-worms had shared his flesh! 

Though the rill roll down from Life's green Mountain, 

Bright through festal dells of youthful days, 
Soon the water of that glancing fountain 

In the vale of years must moult its rays. 
There the pilgrim on the bridge that, bounding 

Life's domain, frontiers the wold of Death, 
Startled, for the first time hears resounding 

From Eternity, a voice that saith, — 
All which is xot puee shall melt and withee. 

Lo ! THE Desolatoe's aem is baee, 
And wheee Man is. Truth shall trace him thithee, 

Be he ouetained eound with gloom oe glaee.'* 



1 SopM, a title of the Khan of Persia. 

By this scymitar 
That slew the Sophy and a Persian prince, 
And won three fields of Sultan Solyman. 

Ilerch. of Ven. Act II. sc. 1. 

2 Was nicht reix ist, wikd ix Nacht verschwinden ; 
Des Veruesters Hand ist ausgestreckt ; 

Und die Wahrheit wird de.v Menschex findex, 
Ob ihn Dunkel oder Glanz versteckt I 



228 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



LTJDWIG HEINRICH CHRISTOPH HOELTY. 



O ! CHERISH Faith and Truth, till Death 

Shall claim thy forfeit clay, 
And wander not one finger's breadth 

Erom God's appointed way ; 
So shall thy pilgrim pathway be 

O'er flowers that brightly bloom ; 
So shalt thou, rich in hope and free 

From terror foce the tomb ; 
Then wilt thou handle spade and scythe, 

With joyous heart and soul ; 
Thy water-jug shall make thee blithe 

As brimming purple bowl. 

All things but work the sinner woe, 

For, do his worst or best, 
The devil drives him to and fro, 

And never lets him rest. 
Him glads mo Spring, no sky outroUed, 

ISTo mellow, yellow field ; 
His one sole good and god is gold ; 

His heart is warped and steeled ; 
The winds that blow, the streams that flow, 

Aff'right the craven slave ; 



noELTY. 229 

Peace flies him, and he does not know 
Kest even in his grave ! 

For he, when spectral midnight reigns, 

Must burst each coffin-band, 
And as a pitch-black dog in chains 

Before his house-door stand. 
The spinners, who with wheel on arm 

Belated home repair, 
"Will quake, and cross themselves from harm 

To see the monster there ; 
And every spinning crone of this 

Terrific sight will tell. 
And wish the villain in the abyss 

And fire of hottest hell. 

Old Grimes was all his hfe a hound, 

A genuine devil's brand ; 
He counter-ploughed his neighbours' ground; 

And robbed them of their land : 
Now, fire-clad, see him plough with toil 

The same land everywhere. 
Upturning all night long the soil, 

With white-hot burning share : 
Himself like blazing straw-sheaf burns 

Behind the glowing plough ; 
And so he burns and so upturns, 

Till Morning bares her brow. 

The baillie who, without remorse. 

Shot stags and fleeced the poor, 
With one grim dog, on fiery horse, 

Hunts nightly o'er the moor ; 
20 



230 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Oft, as a rugged-coated bear, 

He climbs a gnarled pole ; 
Oft, as a goat, must leave his lair, 

And through the hamlet stroll. 

The riot-loving priest who crammed 

His chests with ill-got gold, 
Still haunts the chancel, black and damned, 

Each night when twelve has tolled; 
He howls aloud with dismal yells, 

That startle aisle and fanes, 
Or in the vestry darkly tells 

His church-accursed gains. 

The squire who drank and gamed pell-mell 

The helpless widow's all, 
Now driven along by blasts from Hell, 

Goes coached to Satan's ball ; 
His blue frock, dipped in Hell's foul font. 

With sulphur-flames is lined ; 
One devil holds the reins in front. 

Two devils ride behind. 

Then, Son! be just and true till Death 

Shall claim thy forfeit clay ; 
And wander not one finger's breadth 

From God's revealed way. 
So shall warm tears bedew in showers 

The grass above thy head. 
And lilies and all odorous flowers, 

O'erarch thy last low bed. 



HOELTY. 231 



^oitg jcmthtg to §h)intB$, 

O! WHO to fretful thoughts and wasting cares would 
hearken 

So long as Youth's bright blossoms bloom ? 
Who in the fairy halls of Youth and Hope would darken 

A sunny brow by folds of gloom ? 
Joy stands, and smiles, and beckons with alluring finger, 

On all the pathways Life discloses ; 
And ever where a crossroad bids the Pilgrim linger, 

She crowns him with her wreath of roses. 

The stream, the meadowstream, still bubbles fresh and 
sprightly, 

Still blushes all the dell with flowers 
The moon, the vestal moon, is beaming now as brightly 

As when she silvered Adam's bowers. 
The wine, the chaliced wine, still sheds its purple splendour 

On souls that droop in Grief's eclipse ; 
And in the rosy glen is still as fond and tender 

The kiss from pure Affection's lips. 

And still, as twilight dies, the heart of Youth rejoices. 

Forgetting Pain and even Despair, 
When trilling through the grove the neverweary voices 

Of nightingales enchant the air. 

Earth ! how fair thou art while Youth is yet in blossom I 
IIow bright, how lovely is thy brow ! 

1 wish this bounding heart may wither in my bosom, 
AVhen I shall love thee less than now! 



232 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



Dig, dig, my spade ! 

Whate'er these hands have made, 

Good spade, I owe to thee I 
Rich folk and poor 
Throng in at my dark door, 

Come late or soon to me. 

Yon yellow scull 
Shewed once a beautiful 

But haughty brow and lip ; 
Yon thing of bones 
Left kings and courts and thrones 

For reptile fellowship ! 

This head with hair 
Was that of one too fair 

To linger long on Earth : 
Love, Beauty, Grace, 
Beamed from her angel face, 

And smiles and sunny mirth. 

Ah, gone, and gone ! 
We wither one by one. 

As Autumn-leaves decay, 
Old, Young, and all ; 
Yet, whensoe'er we fall. 

Life seemeth but a day ! 



233 



Dig, then, my spade ! 

"Whate'er these hands have made, 

Good spade, I owe to thee ! 
Eich folk and poor 
Must knock at my dark door, 

Must one day come to me, 



^ixzb tlje Mag fuitlj SoistxB, 

Oh, strew the way with rosy flowers, 

And dupe with smiles thy grief and gloom, 
For tarnished leaves and songless hours 

Await thee in the tomb. 
Lo ! in the brilliant festal hall 

How lightly Youth and Beauty tread I 
Yet, gaze again — the grass is tall 

Above their charnel bed ! 

In blaze of noon the jewelled bride 

Before the altar plights her faith: 
Ere weep the skies of eventide 

Her eyes are dulled in death ! 
Then sigh no more — if Life is brief 

So are its woes ; and why repine? 
Pavilioned by the linden leaf 

We'll quaff the chaliced wine. 

Wild music from the nightingale 
Comes floating on the loaded breeze, 
20* 



234 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

To mingle in the bowery vale 

With hum of summer bees : 
Then taste the joys that God bestows — 

The beaded wine, the faithful kiss, 
For while the tide of Pleasure flows, 

Death bares his black abyss. 

In vain the zephyr's breath perfumes 

The House of Death — in vain its tones 
Shall mourn at midnight round the tombs 

Where sleep our blackening bones. 
The starbright bowl is broken there, 

The witchery of the lute is o'er, 
And — wreck of wrecks ! — there lie the Fair, 

Whose beauty wins no more! 



FPJEDRICH .RUECKERT. 



i^Ijc gibe rounb fijc garnpet. 
She said, "I was not born to mope at home in loneli 



ness. 



The Lady Eleauora von Alleyne. 
She said, " I was not born to mope at home in loneliness, 
Wlien the heart is throbbing sorest there is balsam in the 



forest, 



RUECKERT. 235 

There is balsam in the forest for its pain," 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

She doffed her silks and pearls, and donned instead her 
hunting-gear. 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
She doffed her silks and pearls, and donned instead her 

hunting-gear. 
And, till Summertime was over, as a huntress and a rover 
Did she couch upon the mountain and the plain, 

She, the Lady Eleanora, 
Noble Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 



ments — 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Returning home agen, she viewed with scorn the tourna- 
ments ; 
She saw the morions cloven and the crowning chaplets 
woven. 

And the sight awakened only the disdain 

Of the Lady Eleanora, 
Of the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

"My feeling towards Man is one of utter scornfulness,'* 

Said Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
"My feehng towards Man is one of utter scornfulness, 
And he that would o'ercome it, let him ride around the 
summit 

Of my battlemented Castle by the Maine," 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 



236 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

So came a knight anon to ride around the parapet, 

For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
So came a knight anon to ride around the parapet, 
Man and horse were hurled together o'er the crags tliat 
beetled nether. 

Said the Lady, "There, I fancy, they'll remain!" 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Queenly Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

Then came another knight to ride around the parapet, 

For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Then came another knight to ride around the parapet, 
Man and horse fell down, asunder, o'er the crags that 
beetled under. 

Said the Lady, " They'll not leap the leap again !'* 

Said the I^ady Eleanora, 
Lovely Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

Came other knights anon to ride around the parapet. 

For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Came other knights anon to ride around the parapet. 
Till six and thirty corses of both mangled men and horses 

Had been sacrificed as victims at the fane 
Of the Lady Eleanora, 

Stately Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

That woeful year was by, and Eitter none came after- 
wards 

To Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

That woeful year was by, and Eitter none came after- 
wards ; 

The Castle's lonely basscourt looked a wild o'ergrown- 
with-grasscourt ; 



RUECKERT. 237 

'Twas abandoned by the Ritters and their train 

To the Lady Eleanora, 
Haughty Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

She clomb the silent wall, she gazed around her sovran- 
like, 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 
She clomb the silent wall, she gazed around her sovran- 
like ; 
" And wherefore have departed all the Brave, the Lion- 
hearted, 

Who have left me here to play the Oastellain?" 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

"And is it fled for aye, the palmy time of Chivalry?" 

Cried Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
" And is it fled for aye, the palmy time of Chivalry ? 
Shame light upon the cravens ! May their corpses gorge 
the ravens. 

Since they tremble thus to wear a woman's chain !" 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

The story reached at Gratz the gallant Margrave Gondi- 
bert 

Of Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
The story reached at Gratz the gallant Margrave Gondi- 

bert. 
Quoth he, " I trow the woman must be more or less than 
human ; 

She is worth a little peaceable campaign, 

Is the Lady Eleanora, 
Is Mie Lady Eleanora von Alleyne I" 



238 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

He trained a horse to pace round narrow stones laid mer- 
lonwise, 

For Lady Eleanora von Alley ne. 
He trained a horse to pace round narrow stones laid mer- 

lonwise, 
" Good Grey ! do thou thy duty, and this rocky-bosomed 
beauty 

Shall be taught that all the vauntings are in vain 

Of the Lady Eleanora, 
Of the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne?" 

He left his castle-halls, he came to Lady Eleanor's, 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
He left his castle-halls, he came to Lady Eleanor's. 
" O, lady, best and fairest, here am I, — and, if thou carest, 

I will gallop round the parapet amain, 
Noble Lady Eleanora, 

Noble Lady Eleanora von Alleyne!" 

She saw him spring to horse, that gallant Margrave Gon- 
dibert. 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
She saw him spring to horse, that gallant Margrave Gon- 

dibert. 
" 0, bitter, bitter sorrow ! I shall weep for this to-mor- 
row ! 

It Avere better that in battle he were slain," 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Then rode he round and round the battlemented parapet, 

For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Then rode he round and round the battlemented parapet ; 



RUECKERT. 239 

The Lady wept and trembled, and her paly face resem- 
bled, 

As she looked away, a lily wet with rain ;* 

Hapless Lady Eleanora ! 
Hapless Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

So rode he round and round the battlemented parapet, 

For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 
So rode he round and round the battlemented parapet ; 
"Accurst be my ambition ! He but rideth to perdition, 

He but rideth to perdition without rein!" 
Wept the Lady Eleanora, 

Wept the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Yet rode he round and round the battlemented parapet, 

For Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Yet rode he round and round the battlemented parapet. 
Meanwhile her terror shook her — yea, her breath well nigh 
forsook her. 

Fire was burning in the bosom and the brain 

Of the Lady Eleanora, 
Of the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 



Then rode he round and off the battlemented parapet 

To Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Then rode he round and off the battlemented parapet. 
''ISTow blest be God for ever! This is marvellous! I 
never 

Cherished hope of laying eyes on thee agayne," 

Cried the Lady Eleanora, 
Joyous Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 



240 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" The Man of Men thou art, for thou hast fairly conquered 
me, 

The Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 
The Man of Men thou art, for thou hast fairly conquered 

me. 
I greet thee as my lover, and, ere many days be over, 

Thou shalt wed me and be Lord of my domain," 

Said the Lady Eleanora, 
Said the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

Then bowed the graceful knight, the gallant Margrave 
Gondibert, 

To Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Then bowed that graceful knight, the gallant Margrave 

Gondibert, 
And thus he answered coldly, "There be many who as 
boldly 

Will adventure an achievement they disdain, 

For the Lady Eleanora, 
For the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

" Mayest bide until they come, O stately Lady Eleanor 1 

O, Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 
Mayest bide until they come, O stately Lady Eleanor ! 
And thou and they may marry, but, for me, I must not 
tarry, 

I have won a wife already out of Spain, 

Virgin Lady Eleanora, 
Virgin Lady Eleanora von Alleyne!" 

Thereon he rode away, the gallant Margrave Gondibert, 

From Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Thereon he rode away, the gallant Margrave Gondibert, 



RUECKERT. 241 

And long in shame and anguish did that haughty Lady 
languish, 

Did she languish without pity for her pain, 

She the Lady Eleanora, 
She the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 

And year went after year, and still in barren maiden- 
hood 

Lived Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
And wrinkled Eld crept on, and still her lot was maiden- 
hood, 
And, woe! her end was tragic; she was changed, at 
length, by magic, 

To an ugly wooden image, they maintain ; 

She, the Lady Eleanora, 
She, the Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 

And now, before the gate, in sight of all, transmogrified, 

Stands Lady Eleanora von Alleyne. 
Before her castle-gate, in sight of all, transmogrified, 
And he that won't salute her must be fined in foaming 
pewter. 

If a boor — ^but, if a burgher, in champagne, 

For the Lady Eleanora, 
Wooden Lady Eleanora von Alleyne ! 
21 



242 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



^)^t gghtg Jflober. 

BEINO A DIALOGUE BETWEEN A PASSENGER AND A FADING VIOLET. 
PASSENGEE. 

"Droop not, poor flower! — there's hope for thee: 

The Spring again will breathe and burn, 
And glory robe the kingly tree, 

Whose life is in the sun's return ; 
And once again its buds will chime 

Their peal of joy from viewless bells, 
Though all the long dark Winter-time 

They mourned within their dreary cells." 

FLOWER. 

" Alas ! no kingly tree am I, 

No marvel of a thousand years : 
I cannot dream a Winter by. 

And wake with song when Spring appears. 
At best my life is kin to Death ; 

My httle all of Being flows 
From Summer's kiss, from Summer's breath, 

And sleeps in Summer's grave of snows." 

PASSENGER. 

" Yet, grieve not ! Summer may depart. 
And Beauty seek a brighter home, 

But, thou, thou bearest in thy heart 
The germ of many a life to come. 



RUECKERT. 243 

Mayest lightly reck of Autumn-storms; 

"Whatever thy individual doom, 
Thine essence, blent with other forms, 

Will still shine out in radiant bloom !" 

FLOWEE. 

" Yes ! — moons will wane, and bluer skies 

Breathe blessing forth for flower and tree; 
I know that while the Unit dies, 

The Myriad live immortally : 
But shall my soul survive in them? 

Shall I be all I was before ? 
Vain dream! I wither, soul and stem, 

I die, and know my place no more! 

*' The sun may lavish life on them ; 

His light, in Summer morns and eves, 
May colour every dewy gem 

That sparkles on their tender leaves ; 
But this will not avail the Dead : 

The glory of his wondrous face 
Who now rains lustre on my head, 

Can only mock my burial place ! 

" And woe, to me, fond foolish one, 

To tempt an all-consuming ray ! 
To think a flower could love a Sun, 

Nor feel her soul dissolve away! 
Oh, could I be what once I was. 

How should I shun his fatal beam ! 
Wrapt in myself, my life sliould pass 

But as a still, dark, painless dream ! 



244 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" But, vainly in my bitterness 

I speak the language of despair : 
In life, in death, I still must bless 

The sun, the light, the cradling air I 
Mine early love to them I gave. 

And, now that yon bright orb on high 
Illumines but a wider grave. 

For them I breathe my final sigh ! 

" How often soared my soul aloft 

In balmy bliss too deep to speak. 
When Zephyr came and kissed with soft, 

Sweet incense-breath my blushing cheek ! 
When beauteous bees and butterflies 

Flew round me in the summer beam, 
Or when some virgin's glorious eyes 

Bent o'er me like a dazzling dream ! 



"Ah, yes! I know myself a birth 

Of that All-wise, All-mighty Love 
Which made the flower to bloom on earth, 

And sun and stars to burn above ; 
And if, like them, I fade and fail, 

If I but share the common doom. 
Let no lament of mine bewail 

My dark descent to Hades' gloom ! 



"Farewell, thou Lamp of this green globe! 

Thy light is on — my dying face. 
Thy glory tints — my faded robe. 

And clasps me in — a death-embrace ! 



RUECKERT. 245 

Farewell, thou balsam-dropping Spring ! 

Farewell, ye skies that beam and weep ! 
Unhoping and unmurmuring, 

I bow my head and sink to sleep !" 



'^vdmt more iljait ^cieira. 

I HAVE a thousand thousand lays, 

Compact of myriad myriad words, 
And so can sing a million Avays, 

Can play at pleasure on the chords 
Of tuned harp or heart ; 

Yet is there one sweet song 

For which in vain I pine and long; 
I cannot reach that song, with all my minstrel-art. 

A shepherd sits within a dell, 

O'ercanopied from rain and heat : 
A shallow but pellucid well 

Doth ever bubble at his feet. 
His pipe is but a leaf, 

Yet there, above that stream, 

He plays and plays, as in a dream, 
One air that steals away the senses like a thief. 

A simple air it«eems in truth, 

And who begins will end it soon ; 
Yet, when that hidden shepherd-youth 

So pours it in the ear of N'oon, 
21* 



246 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Tears flow from those anear. 

All songs of yours and mine 

Condensed in one were less divine 
Than that sweet air to sing, that sweet, sweet air 
to hear ! 

'Twas yesternoon he played it last ; 

The hummings of a hundred bees 
Were in mine ears, yet, as I passed, 

I heard him through the myrtle trees. 
Stretched all along he lay, 

'Mid foliage half-decayed. 

His lambs were feeding while he played, 
And sleepily wore on the stilly Summer-day. 



#0ite lit i\it Mirttr. 

Solomon ! where is thy throne ? It is gone in the wind. 
Babylon! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind. 
Like the swift shadows of Noon, like the dreams of the 

Blind, 
Vanish the glories and pomps of the earth in the wind. 

Man ! canst thou build upon aught in the pride of thy 

mind ? 
Wisdom will teach thee that nothi-ng can tarry behind; 
Though there be thousand bright actions embalmed and 

enshrined, 
Myriads and millions of brighter are snow in the wind. 



RUECKERT. 247 

Solomon! where is thy throne ? It is gone in the wind. 
Babylon ! where is thy might ? It is gone in the wind. 
All that the genius of man hath achieved or designed 
Waits but its hour to be dealt with as dust by the wind. 

Say, what is Pleasure? A phantom, a mask undefined; 
Science? An almond, whereof we can pierce but the 

rind ; 
Honour and Affluence? Firmans that Fortune hatli 

signed 
Only to glitter and pass on the wings of the wind. 

Solomon ! where is thy throne ? It is gone in the wind. 
Babylon ! where is thy might ? It is gone in the wind. 
Who is the Fortunate ? He who in anguish hath pined ! 
He shall rejoice when his relics are dust in the wind ! 

Mortal! be careful with what thy best hopes are en- 
twined ; 

Woe to the miners for Truth — where the Lampless have 
mined ! 

Woe to the seekers on earth for — what none ever find ! 

They and their trust shall be scattered like leaves on the 
wind. 

Solomon! where is thy throne ? It is gone in the wind. 
Babylon ! where is thy might? It is gone in the wind. 
Happy in death are they only whose hearts have con- 
signed 
All Earth's affections and longings and cares to the wind: 

Pity, thou, reader ! the madness of poor Humankind, 
Raving of Knowledge, — and Satan so busy to blind ! 



248 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Eaving of Glory, — like me, — for the garlands I bind 
(Garlands of song) are but gathered, and — strewn in the 
wind ! 

Solomon ! where is thy throne ? It is gone in the wind. 
Babylon! where is thy might ? It is gone in the wind. 
I, Abul-Namez, must rest ; for my fire hath declined, 
And I hear voices from Hades like bells on the wind ! 



^nH ^m go Pore. 

I SAW her once, one little while, and then no more : 
'Twas Eden's light on Earth awhile, and then no more. 
Amid the throng she passed along the meadow -floor : 
Spring seemed to smile on Earth awhile, and then no more, 
But whence she came, which way she went, what garb 

she wore, 
I noted not; I gazed awhile, and then no more. 

I saw her once, one little w^hiile, and then no more : 
'Twas Paradise on Earth awhile, and then no more : 
Ah! what avail my vigils pale, my magic lore? 
She shone before mine eyes awhile, and then no more. 
The shallop of my peace is Avrecked on Beauty's shore ; 
Near Hope's fair isle it rode awhile, and then no more ! 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more : 
Earth looked like Heaven a little while, and then no more. 
Her presence thrilled and lighted to its inner core 



RUECKERT. 249 

My desert breast a little while, and then no more. 
So may, perchance, a meteor glance at midnight o'er 
Some ruined pile a little while, and then no more ! 

I saw her once, one little while, and then no more, 
The earth was Peri-land awhile, and then no more. 
Oh, might I see but once again, as once before, 
Through chance or wile, that shape awhile, and then no 

more ! 
Death soon would heal my griefs ! This heart, now sad 

and sore. 
Would beat anew a little while, and then no more ! 



f l^e Cat^ebral oi Cologne. 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! 

Antique, unique, sublime — 

Eare monument from the elder time. 
Begun so long agone, 

Yet never finished, though wrought at oft — 
Yonder it soars alone, 

Alone, aloft, 

Blending the weird, and stern, and soft, . 
The Cathedral-dome of Cologne ! 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne! 

Whence came its Meister's plan ? 

Before or since to the eye of man 
Was never aught like it shown ! 

Alas ! the matchless Meister died ! 



250 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Alas! lie died! — and none 

Thereafter tried 

To fathom the mystery typified 
By the marvellous Dome of Cologne ! 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! 

In the troublesome times of old 

The soldier alone won fame and gold — 
The artist passed for a drone ! 

War's hurricanes rocked and wasted earth ; 
Men battled for shrine or throne ; 

None sat by his hearth 

To ponder the means of a second birth 
For the holy Dome of Cologne ! 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! 

To God be immortal praise 

That now at length, in our own bright days, 
The Meister's plan is known ! 

Kesearch hath brought the relic to light 
From its mausoleum of stone — 

We hail with delight 

A treasure so long concealed fi*ora sight, 
The original Dome of Cologne ! 

The Dome, the Dome of Cologne ! 

Its hour of glory is nigh ! 

Build ye it high as the sapphire sky! 
As moonlight never hath shone 

On Temple of such a magnificent 
Ideal from zone to zone, 

So, aid its ascent 

To the sapphire blue of the firmament, 
The Cathedral-dome of Cologne I 



SCHNEZLER, 251 



AUGUST SCHNEZLER. 



It stands in the lonely Winterthal, 

At the base of Ilsberg hill ; 
It stands as though it fain would fall, 

The dark Deserted Mill, 
Its engines, coated with moss and mould, 

Bide silent all the day ; 
Its mildewed walis and windows old 

Are crumbling into decay. 

So through the Daylight's lingering hours 

It mourns in weary rest ; 
But, soon as the sunset's gorgeous bowers 

Begin to fade in the west, 
The long-dead millers leave their lairs, 

And open its creaking doors. 
And their feet glide up and down its stairs, 

And over its dusty floors. 

And the millers' men, they too awake. 
And the night's weird work begins : 

The wheels turn round, the hoppers shake, 
The flour falls into the binns. 

The mill-bell tolls agen and agen, 

And the cry is, " Grist here, ho !" 



252 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And the dead old millers and their men 
Move busily to and fro. 

And ever as the night wears more and more 

New groups throng into the Mill, 
And the clangor, deafening enough before, 

Grows louder and wilder still. 
Huge sacks are harrowed from floor to floor ; 

The wheels redouble their din ; 
The hoppers clatter, the engines roar ; 

And the flour overflows the binn. 

But with the Morning's pearly sheen 

This ghastly hubbub wanes ; 
And the moon-dim face of si, woman is seen 

Through the meal-dulled window panes. 
She opens the sash, and her words resound 

In tones of unearthly power — 
" Come hither, good folks, the corn is ground ; 

Come hither, and take your flour!" 

Thereon strange hazy lights appear 

A-flitting all through the pile. 
And a deep, melodious, choral cheer 

Ascends through the roof the while. 
But, a moment more, and you gaze and hark 

And wonder and wait in vain ; 
For suddenly all again is dark. 

And all is hushed again. 

It stands in the desolate Winterthal, 
At the base of Ilsberg hill ; 



SCHNEZLER. 253 

It stands as though it vrould rather fall, 

The Long-deserted Mill. 
Its engines, coated with moss and mould, 

Bide silent all the day ; 
And its mildewed walls and windows old 

Are crumbling fast away. 



A POPULAR LEGEND OF THE BLACK FOREST. 

Anigh the gloomy Mummel-Zee^ 
Do live the palest lilies many : 
All day they droop so drowsily. 

In azure air and rainy ; 
But when the dreamful noon of Night 
Eains down on earth its yellow light, 
Up spring they, full of lightness. 
In Woman's form and brightness. 

The sad reeds moan like spirits bound 
Along the troubled water's border. 
As, hand-with-hand, linked wreathwise round, 

The virgins dance in order, 
Moonwhite in features as in dress. 
Till o'er their phantom huelessness 
A warmer colour gushes, 
And tints their cheeks with blushes. 

1 A lake in the Black Forest, near Baden. 

22 



254 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Then pipe the reeds a sadder tune ; 

The wind raves through the tannen-forest ; 
The wolves in chorus bay the moon, 

Where glance her grey beams hoarest ; 
And round and round the darkling grass 
In mazy whirl the dancers pass, 
And loudlier boom the billows 
Among the reeds and willows. 

But see! — the Giant-Elf^ anon 

Half rises from the water's bosom, 
With streaming beard, and head whereon 

Dank weeds for garlands blossom ; 

And, fiercely lifting towards the strand 

A naked arm and clenched hand. 

He shouts in tones of thunder 

That wake the abysses under ! 

Then lake and winds and dancers rest : 

And, as the water ceases booming. 
The Elf cries, " Hence, ye Shapes unblest, 

And leave my lilies blooming!" 
And lo ! the streaky Morn is up, 
Dew-diamonds brim each flowret's cup, 
And Muramel's lily-daughters 
Once more bend o'er his waters. 

1 The Tutelary Genius of the Lake. 



MUELLER. 255 



WILHELM MUELLER. 



Hark ! the faint bells of the Sunken City 
Peal once more their wonted evening-chime ; 

From the Deep's abysses floats a ditty, 
Wild and wondrous, of the olden time. 

Temples, towers, and domes of many stories 

There lie buried in an ocean-grave, 
Undescried, save when their golden glories 

Gleam, at sunset, through the lighted wave. 

And the mariner who hath seen them glisten, 
In whose ears those magic bells do sound, 

Night by night bides there to watch and listen. 
Though Death lurks behind each dark rock round. 

So the bells of Memory's Wonder-city 
Peal for me their old melodious chime : 

So my heart pours forth a changeful ditty, 
Sad and pleasant, from the by-gone time. 

Domes, and towers, and castles, fancy-builded, 
There lie lost to Daylight's garish beams, 

There lie hidden, till unveiled and gilded, 
Glory-gilded, by my nightly dreams ! 



256 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And then hear I music sweet npknelling 
From a many a well-known phantom-band, 

And, through tears, can see my natural dwelling 
Far off in the Spirit's luminous Land ! 



^t gxiHt of tlje §mk 

Mother dear, thy happy heart is weetless of my dolour. 
Why a wedding robe for me, and why its purple colour ? 
This proud purple shall show paler in the daydawn early, 
All night long my tears thereon shall fall so fast and 
pearly ! 

But if Morning's golden sun arise and find me sleeping, 
If the robe remain unblanched, for all my weary weeping, 
Carl shall come to aid me from his bed below the billow, 
And his locks shall steep afresh my purple and my pillow. 

For he lies where gentle waters watch as friends above him ; 
And when these shall whisper him that she who vowed 

to love him 
Trembles lest the jealous heart that in his youth he gave 

her 
Now forsake her bosom, he will rise and come to save her. 

Mother dear, I go to church — but thence into a far land. 
Give ray bridegroom only this funereal cypress garland. 
All that he shall find will be a maiden's corpse to-morrov 
Stretched before the altar where the widows kneel ii 
sorrow. 



MUELLER. 



25*7 



gfoon-bag Jreaming. 

There danceth adown the mountain 

The Child of a lofty race, 
A Streamlet fresh from its Fountain 

Hies towards the valley apace. 

Some fairy hath whispered " Follow I" 
And I have obeyed her well : 

I thread the Blossom y Hollow 
"With my pilgrim staff and shell. 

On, on, behold me straying. 
And ever beside the stream, 

As I list its murmurous playing. 
And mark how its wavelets gleam. 

Can this be the path I intended ? 

O, Sorceress ! what shall I say ? 
Thy dazzle and music blended 

Have wiled my reason away ! 

No mortal sounds are winging 

Their wonted way along ; 
Oh, no ! some Naiad is singing 

A flattering summer song ! 

And loudlier doth she flatter. 
And loudlier, loudlier still, — 

Hark ! hark ! — how merrily clatter 
The wheels of the village-mill ! 
22* 



258 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



FRIEDRICH BARON DE LA MOTTE FOUQUE. 



In a shady dell a Shepherd sate, 
And by his side was the fairest mate ! 
The hearts of both the youth and maiden 
With love were laden and overladen. 

And, as they spake with tongue and eye, 
A weary wandering man rode by ; 
A swarthy wayfarer, worn with travel, 
Rode wearily over the burning gravel. 

"Down hither, and rest thee, thou "Weary One! 
Why ride at noon in the scorching sun ? 
Rest here in this dell, so cool and darkling 
That even the rivulets run unsparkhng. 

" And I and the maiden thou seest with me 

Will gather the palest flowers for thee. 

And weave them into as pale a garland 

As wreathes the brow of a fay from Star-land." 

So spake the Shepherd, all cool in the shade, 
And thus the Wanderer answer made : 
" Thougli the way be long and the noon be burning, 
T ride unresting and unreturning: 



LA MOTTE FOUQUE. 259 

" For I was false to m j vows, and sold 
The early love of my heart for gold ; 
So dare I seek Rest and Happiness never, 
But only Gold for ever and ever ! 

" N'o flowers for me, until Pity's tears 

Bedew the few that in after-years 

May droop where the winds shall be nightly telling 

How low I lie in my last dark dwelling!" 



The sun is warm, the air is bland, 

The heavens wear that stainless blue 
Which only in an orient land 

The eye of man may view ; 
And lo ! around, and all abroad, 

A glittering host, a mighty horde, 
And at their head a demigod. 

Who slays with lightning-sword. 

The bright noon burns, but idly now 

Those warriors rest by vale and hill, 
And shadows on their Leader's brow 

Seem ominous of ill. 
Spell-bound, he stands beside a Tree, 

And well he may, for, through its leaves. 
Unstirred by wind, come brokenly 

Moans, as of one that grieves. 



260 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

How strange ! he thought : — Life is a boon 

Given and resumed, but liow^ and whenf 
But now I asked myself how soon 

I should go home agen, 
How soon I might again behold 

My mourning mother's tearful face — 
How soon my kindred might enfold 

Me in their dear embrace ! 



There was an Indian Magian there, 

And, stepping forth, he bent his knee. 
"Oh, King!" he said, "be wise! — beware 

This too prophetic tree!" 
"Ha!" cried the King, "thouknowest, then, Seer, 

What yon strange oracle reveals?" 
"Alas!" the Magian said, "I hear 

Deep words like thunder-peals ! 

" I hear the groans of more than Man, 

Hear tones that warn, denounce, beseech ; 
Hear — woe is me ! how darkly ran 

That strain of thrilling speech ! 
'Oh, King,' it spake, 'all-trampling King, 

Thou leadest legions from afar, 
But, Battle droops his clotted wing, 

Night menaces thy star ! 

" ' Fond visions of thy boyhood's years 
Dawn like dim light upon thy soul ; 

Thou seest again thy mother's tears, 
Which Love could not control. 



LA MOTTE FOUQUE. 261 

All ! thy career in sooth is run, 

Ah ! thou indeed returnest home ; 
The Mother waits to clasp her son 

Low in her gloomful dome ! 



" ' Yet, go rejoicing ! He who reigns 

O'er Earth alone, leaves worlds unscanned. 
Life binds the spirit as with chains ; 

Seek thou the Phantom-land ! 
Leave Conquest all it looks for here — 

Leave willing slaves a bloody throne — 
Thine henceforth is another sphere — 

Death's realm, the dark Unknown!'" 



The Magian ceased : — the leaves were hushed, 

But wailings broke from all around, 
Until the Chief, whose red blood flushed 

His cheek with hotter bound. 
Spake in the tones of one with whom 

Fear never yet had been a guest, 
" And when doth Fate achieve' my doom ? 

And where shall be my rest?" 



"Oh, noble heart!" the Magian said, 

And tears unbidden filled his eyes, 
" We should not weep for thee ; — the Dead 

Change but their home and skies ; 
The moon shall beam, the myrtles bloom, 

For thee no more; yet, sorrow not ! 
The immortal pomp of Hades' gloom 

Best consecrates thy lot ! 



262 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

"In June, in June, in laughing June, 

And where the dells show deepest green, 
Pavilioned overhead at noon 

With gold and silver sheen, 
These be for thee the place, the time : 

Trust not thy heart, trust not thine eyes. 
Beyond the Mount thy warm hopes climb 

The Land of Darkness lies!" 

Unblenching at the fateful words, 

The hero turned around in haste — 
"On! — on!" he cried, "ye million swords! 

Your course, like mine, is traced. 
Let me but close Life's narrow span 

Where weapons clash and banners wave ; 
I would not live to mourn that Man 

But conquers for a grave!" 



Faee-thee-sweetly, Youthhood's time, 
Golden time of Love and Singing! 

Hope and Joy were in their prime 

Only when thy flowers were springing. 

All thy voiceful soul is mute, 

Thou hast dreamed thy dream of glory : 
Scarcely now can lyre or lute 

Wake one echo of thy story ! 



FREILIGRATH. 263 

Ah ! the heart is but a grave, 

Late or soon, for young Affection. 
There the Love that Nature gave 

Sleeps, to know no resurrection. 

This our sons will echo long ; 

This our sires have sung before us : 
Join, then, we the shadowy throng! 

Swell, then, we the spectral chorus ! 



FERDINAND FREILIGRATH. 



'TwAs at midnight, in the Desert, where we rested on the 

ground ; 
There my Beddaweens were sleeping, and their steeds 

were stretched around ; 
In the farness lay the moonlight on the Mountains of the 

Nile, 
And the camel-bones that strewed the sands for many an 

arid mile. 

With my saddle for a pillow did I prop my weary head, 
And my kaftan-cloth unfolded o'er my limbs was lightly 
spread. 



2G4 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

While beside me, as the Kapitaun and watchman of my 

band, 
Lay my Bazra sword and pistols twain a-shimmering on 

the sand. 

And the stillness was unbroken, save at moments by a cry 
From some stray belated vulture sailing blackly down the 

sky, 
Or the snortings of a sleeping steed at waters fancy-seen, 
Or the hurried warlike mutterings of some dreaming 

Beddaween. 

"When, behold ! — a sudden sandquake — and atween the 
earth and moon 

Rose a mighty Host of Shadows, as from out some dim 
lagoon : 

Then our coursers gasped with terror, and a thrill shook 
every man. 

And the cry was, '''•Allah ATcbar ! — 'tis the Spectre- 
Caravan!" 

On they came, their hueless faces toward Mecca ever- 
more; 

On they came, long files of camels, and of women whom 
they bore. 

Guides and merchants, youthful maidens, bearing pitchers 
in their hands. 

And behind them troops of horsemen following, sumless 
as the sands ! 

More and more ! the phantom-pageant overshadowed all 
the plains, 

Yea, the ghastly camel-bones arose, and grew to camel- 
trains ; 



FREILIGRATH. 265 

And the whirling column-clouds of sand to forms in dusky- 
garbs, 

Here, afoot as Hadjee pilgrims — there, as warriors on 
their barbs ! 



"Whence we knew the Night was come when all whom 

Death had sought and found 
Long ago amid the sands whereon their bones yet bleach 

around, 
Rise by legions from the darkness of their prisons low 

and lone, 
And in dim procession march to kiss the Kaaba's Holy 

Stone. 



And yet more and more for ever! — still they swept in 
pomp along, 

Till I asked me, Can the Desert hold so vast a muster- 
throng 1 

Lo ! the Dead are here in myriads ; the whole World of 
Hades waits, 

As with eager wish to press beyond the Babelmandel 
Straits ! 



Then I spake, " Our steeds are frantic : To your saddles, 



every one 



Never quail before these Shadows ! You are children of 

the Sun ! 
If their garments rustle past you, if their glances reach 

you here, 
Cry Bismillah! — and that mighty Name shall banish 

every fear. 



266 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

"Courage, comrades! Even now the moon is waning 

far a- west, 
Soon the welcome Dawn will mount the skies in gold and 

crimson vest, 
And in thinnest air wilt melt away those phantom shapes 

forlorn, 
When again upon your brows you feel the odour-winds 

of Morn !" 



m^t lion's fib^. 

What ! — wilt thou bind him fast with a chain? 
Wilt bind the King of the Cloudy Sands ? 
Idiot fool ! — he has burst from thy hands and bands, 

And speeds like Storm through his far domain ! 
See ! — he crouches down in the sedge 
By the water's edge. 

Making the startled sycamore-boughs to quiver. 
Gazelle and Giraffe, I think, will shun that river! 

Not so! — The curtain of Evening falls, 
And the Kaffer, mooring his light canoe 
To the shore, glides down through the hushed Karroo, 

And the watchfires burn in the Hottentot-kraals, 
And the Antelope seeks a bed in the bush 
Till the Dawn shall blush, 

And the Zebra stretches his hmbs by the tinkhng foun- 
tain, 
And the changeful signals fade from the Table-Mountain : 



FREILIGRATH. 



267 



Now look through the dusk ! — what seest thou now? 
Seest such a tall Giraffe ! She stalks 
All majesty through the Desert's walks — 

In search of water to cool her tongue and brow ; 
From tract to tract of the limitless waste 
Behold her haste ! 

Till, bowing her long neck down, she buries her face in 
The reeds, and, kneeling, drinks from the river's basin. 

But, look again ! — ^look ! — see once more 
Those globe-eyes glare ! The gigantic reeds 
Lie cloven and trampled like puniest weeds — 

The Lion leaps on the Drinker's neck with a roar I 
O, what a Kacer ! Can any behold 
'Mid the housings of gold 
In the stables of kings dyes half so splendid 
As those on the brindled hide of yon wild animal 
blended ? 

Greedily fleshes the Lion his teeth 
In the breast of his writhing prey : — around 
Her neck his loose brown mane is wound — 

Hark, that hollow cry ! She springs up from beneath — 
And in agony flies over plains and heights. 
See how she unites. 

Even under such monstrous and torturing trammel, 
With the grace of the Leopard the speed of the Camel ! 

She reaches the central moonlighted plain, 
That spreadeth around all bare and wide ; 
Meanwhile, adown her spotted side 

The dusky blood-gouts gush like rain — 



268 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And her woeful eyeballs, how they stare 

On the void of Air ! 

Yet, on she flies — on — on ; — for her there is no retreat- 
ing; 

And the Desert can hear the heart of the Doomed One 
beating! 

And lo ! a stupendous column of sand, 
A sand-spout out of that Sandy Ocean, upcurls 
Behind the pair in eddies and whirls ; 

Most like some flaming colossal brand, 
Or wandering spirit of wrath 
On his blasted path, 
Or the dreadful Pillar that lighted the warriors and 

women 
Of Israel's land through the wildernesses of Yemen. 

And the Yulture, scenting a coming carouse, 
Sails, hoarsely screaming, down the sky ; 
The bloody Hysena, be sure, is nigh, 

Fierce pillager, he, of the charnel-house ! 
The Panther, too, who strangles the Cape-town sheep 
As they lie asleep, 

Athirst for his share in the slaughter, follows. 
While the gore of their victim spreads like a pool in the 
sandy hollows ! 

She reels, — but the King of the Brutes bestrides 
His tottering throne to the last : — with might 
He plunges his terrible claws in the bright 

And delicate cushions of her sides. 
Yet hold! — fair play ! — she rallies again! 



FREILIGRATH. 269 

Her struggles but help to drain her life-blood faster — 
She staggers — gasps — and sinks at the feet of her Slayer 
and Master ! 

She staggers — she falls — she shall struggle no more ! 
The death rattle slightly convulses her throat — 
Mayest look thy last on that mangled coat, 

Besprent with sand, and foam, and gore ! 
Adieu! The Orient glimmers afar, 
And the morning-star 
Anon will rise over Madagascar brightly, — 
So rides the Lion in Afric's deserts nightly ! 



Old even in boyhood, faint and ill, 
And sleepless on ray couch of woe, 
I sip this beverage, which I owe 

To G-eyser's depths and Hecla's hill, 

In fields where ice lies layer on layer, 
And lava hardens o'er the whole — 
And the Circle of the Arctic Pole 

Looks forth on snow-crags ever bare — 

Where fierce volcanic fires burn blue 
Through many a meteor-lighted night, 
'Mid springs that foam in boiling might, 

These blandly-bitter lichens grew, 
23* 



2*70 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Where, from the mountain's furnace-lair, 
From thousand smoke-enveloped cones, 
Colossal blocks of red-hot stones 

Are night by night uphurled in air — 

(Like blood-red Saga-birds of yore) 
While o'er the immeasurable snows 
A sea of burning resin flows 

Bubbling like molten metal ore — 

Where from the Jokuls^ to the strand 

The dimmed eye turns from smoke and steam 
Only to track some sulphur-stream 

That seethes along the blasted land — 

Where clouds lie black on cinder-piles, 
And all night long the lone Seal moans, 
As, one by one, the mighty stones 

Fall echoing down on far-off isles — 

Where, in a word, hills vomit flame, 
And storms for ever lash the sea. 
There sprang this bitter moss for me. 

Thence this astringent potion came. 

Yes, and my heart beats lightlier now, 
My blood begins to dance along : 
I now feel strong — Oh, more than strong! 

I feel transformed I know not how ! 

The Meteor-lights are in my brain — 
I see througli smoke the Desolate Shore — 

Ice -hills. 



FREILIGRATH. 27l 

The raging Torrent sweeps once more 
From Hecla's crater o'er the plain. 

Deep in my breast the Boiling Springs 
Beneath apparent ice are stirred — 
My thoughts are each a Saga-bird, 

With tongues of Kvid flame for wings ! 

Ha! — what if this green beverage be 

The Chalice of my future Life — 

If now, as in yon Isle, the strife 
Of Snow and Fire be born in me I 

Oh, be it thus ! Oh, let me feel 

The lava-flood in every vein ! 

Be mine the AYill that conquers Pain — 
The heart of rock — the nerves of steel ! 

Oh, let the flames that burn unfed 
Within me wax until they glow, 
Volcano-like, through even the snow 

That in few years shall strew ray head ! 

And, as the stones that Ilecla sees 

Flung up to heaven through fiery rain, 
Descend like thunderbolts again 

Upon the distant Faroese,' 

So let the rude but burning rhymes 
Cast from the cauldron of my breast 
Again fall flashing down, and rest 

On human hearts in farthest climes! 

1 A cluster of islands in the Noithern Ocean, to the N. E. of Shetland. 



272 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



m^z ^lj£ih 0f Soxxwt mnnx. 

A Narrative of October, 1830. 

" How saj^est thou? Came to-day the Caravan 

From Africa ? And is it here ?— Tis well ! 
Bear me beyond the tent, me and mine ottom&n ! 
I would myself behold it. I feel eager 
To learn the youngest news. As the Gazelle 

Eushes to drink will I to hear, and gather thence 
fresh vigour." 

So spake the Sheik. They bore him forth ; and thus be- 
gan the Moor — 
" Old man ! Upon Algeria's towers the Tricouleur is 
flying ! 
Bright silks of Lyons rustle at each balcony and door ; 
In the streets the loud Reveil resounds at break of 
day : 
Steeds prance to the Marseillaise o'er heaps of Dead 
and Dying. 
The Franks came from Toulon, men say. 

"Southwards their legions marched through burning 
lands ; 
The Barbary sun flashed on their arms — about 
Their chargers' manes were blown clouds of Tunisian 
sands. 
Knowest where the Giant Atlas rises dim in 
The hot sky? Thither,"in disastrous rout. 

The wild Kabyles fled with their herds and women. 



FREILIGRATH. 273 

"The Franks pursued. Hu Allah ! — each defile 

Grew a very hell-gulf then, witli smoke, and fire, and 
bomb ! 
The Lion left the Deer's half-cranched remains the while ; 
He snuffed upon the winds a daintier prey! 
Hark! the shout, En avant! To the topmost peak 
upclomb 
The conquerors in that bloody fray ! 

"Circles of glittering bayonets crowned the mountain's 
height. 
The hundred Cities of the Plain, from Atlas to the sea 
afar, 
From Tunis forth to Fez, shone in the noonday-light. 

The spear-men rested by their steeds, or slaked their 
thirst at rivulets : 
And round them through dark myrtles burned, — each 
like a star, — 
The slender golden minarets. 

" But in the valley blooms the odorous Almond-tree, 
And the Aloe blossoms on the rock, defying storms 
and suns. 
Here was their conquest sealed. Look ! — yonder heaves 
the sea. 
And far to the left lies Franquistan. The banners 
flouted the blue skies. 
The artillerymen came up. Mashallah ! how the guns 
Did roar to sanctify their prize!" 

"'Tis they!" the Sheik exclaimed: "I fought among 
them, I, 
At the Battle of the Pyramids ! Red all the long day ran, 



274 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Red as thy turban-folds, the Nile's high billows by ! 

But, their Sultaun ? — Speak! — He was once my 
guest. 
His lineaments,— gait, — garb? Sawest thou the 
Man?"— 
The Moor's hand slowly felt its way into his breast. 

"^<?," he replied: "he bode in his warm palace-halls. 
A Pasha led his warriors through the fire of hostile 
ranks ; 
An Aga thundered for him before Atlas' iron walls ! 

His lineaments, thou say est? On gold, at least, they 
lack 
The kingly stamp. See here ! A Spahi^ of the Franks 
Gave me this coin in chafiering some days back." 

The Kashef took the gold: he gazed upon the head and 
face. 
"Was this the great Sultaun he had known long years 
ago ? 
It seemed not ; for he sighed as all in vain he strove to 
trace 
The still-remembered features. " Ah, no !— this," he 
said, "is 
Not Ms broad brow and piercing eye : who this man is 
I do not know. 
How very like a Pear his head is!" 

1 Horse-soldier. 9 Governor. 



FREILIGKATH. 275 



S^^c l^iitg of Congo anb Ijis Junbreir Wahts. 

Fill up with bright pahn-wine, unto the rim fill up 
The cloven Ostrich-eggshell-cup, 

And don your shells and chowries, ye Sultaunas ! 
O chuse your gayest, gorgeousest array, 
As on the brilliant Beiram holiday 

That opes the doors of your Zenaunas ! 

Come ! never sit a trembling on your silk deewauns ! 
What fear ye? To your feet, ye timid fawns ! 

See here your zones embossed with gems and amber ! 
See here the firebright beads of coral for your necks ! 
In such a festal time each young Sultauna decks 

Herself as for the nuptial-chamber. 

Eejoice ! — your Lord, your King comes home again ! 
His enemies lie slaughtered on the desert-plain. 

Eejoice! — It cost you tears of blood to sever 
From one you loved so well — but now your griefs are 

o'er : 
Sing ! Dance ! He leaves his land, his house, no more — 

Henceforward he is yours for ever ! 

Triumphant he returns : nought seeks he now ; his hand 
No more need hurl the javelin : sea and sand and land 

Are his, far as the Zaire's blue billows wander ; 
Henceforth he bids farewell to spear and battle-horse. 
And calls you to his couch, — a cold one, for — his corse 

Lies on the copper buckler yonder ! 



276 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Nay, fill not thus the Harem with your shrieks ! 

'Tis he! Behold his cloak, striped, Quagga-like, with 

bloody streaks ! 
'Tis he ! albeit his eyes lie glazed for ever under 
Their lids, — albeit his blood no more shall dance along 
In rapture to the music of the Tomtom-gong, 
Or headlong war-steed's hoof of thunder ! 

Yes! the Great Buffalo^ sleeps! His mightiest victory 

was his last. 
His warriors howl in vain — his necromancers gaze aghast — 

Fetish, nor magic wand, nor amulet of darnel, 
Can charm back life to the clay-cold heart and limb. 
He sleeps, and you, his women, sleep with him I 

You share the dark pomps of his charnel ! 

Even now the headsman whets his axe to slay you at the 

funeral-feast. 
Courage ! — a glorious fate is yours ! Through Afric and 
the East 
Your fame shall be immortal ! Kordofan and Yemen 
"With stories of your lord's exploits and your devotedness 

shall ring. 
And future ages rear skull-obelisks to the King 
Of Congo and his Hundred Women ! 

1 " A kind of hired encomiast stood on the Monarch's left hand crying out h 
pleine gorge, during the whole ceremony, " See the Buffalo ! — the Offspring of a 
Buffalo 1— a Bull of Bulls !— the Elephant of superior strength 1— the powerful Sul- 
tan Abd-el-rachman-el-rashid !' "—Brown's Travels in Africa. 



FREILIGRATH. 277 



^0 a ^Imlhtg '§t^xo, 

Man of giant height and form, 
Who, beside the Gambia river, 

Oft amid the lightning-storm 
Sawest the gUttering Fetisli quiver ! 

Who hast poured the Panther's hot 
Life-blood out beneath the Equator, 

And with poisoned arrow shot 
Through red reeds the Alligator ! 

Wherefore art thou here ? Why flies 
Thy fleet foot o'er frozen places — 

Thou, the child of tropic skies. 
Cradled in the sun's embraces ? 

Thou that, reeking from the wave, 
On thy war-horse often sprungest, 

And around the Foulah slave 

Guinea's badge of bondage flungest? 

Oh, at home, amid thy mates. 

There, where skulls tattooed and gory 
Whiten high o'er palace-gates, 

Let me see thee in thy glory ! 

Where gold gum from bursten trees 
Oozes like the slime of Lethe, 

As in dreams my spirit sees. 

Let mine eyes in daylight see thee! 
24 



278 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

See thee, far from our chill ITorth, 
Which thou in thy soul abhorrest, 

Chase the Koomozeno^ forth 

Through the boundless banyan-forest 1 

See thee, in thine own rich land, 

Decked with gems of barbarous beauty, 

Keeping watch, with spear in hand, 
O'er thy Manza's' piles of booty! 

Whirling, ghding here along, 

Ever shifting thy position, 
Thou resemblest, in this throng, 

Some strange African magician, 

Who, within the enchanted Ring, 
All the hosts of Hell delieth, 

Or, upborne on Griffin-wing, 
Through Zahara's desert flieth! 

Oh! when sunny Spring once more 
Melts the ice of western oceans, 

Hie thee back to that loved shore* 
Where were born thy first emotions ! 

There around thy jetblack head 
Bright gold dust in garlands flashes — 

Here hoar frost and snows instead 
Strew it but with silver ashes ! 

1 Rhinoceros. 2 Sovereign's. a A blunder 01 the Poet. 



FREILIGRATH. 2V9 



®lje gilcxHitbvhtc petu. 

BoiJN't)! bound! my desert-barb from Alexandria ! 
My wild one ! Such a courser no Emeer nor Shah 
Bestrides — whoever else may in those Eastern lands 

Rock in magnificent saddles upon field or plain! 
Where thundereth such a hoof as thine along the sands ? 

Where streameth such a tail ? Where such a meteor- 
mane ? 

As it stands written, thus thou neighest loud, " Ha! ha!" 
Spurning both bit and reins. The winds of Africa 
Blow the loose hair about thy chaffron to and fro ! 

Lightning is in thy glance, thy flanks are white with 
foam. 
Thou art not, sure, the animal snafifled by Boileau, 

And whom Gottschedian^ turnpike-law forbade to 



He^ bitted, bridled, reined, steps delicately along, 

Ambling for ever to the air of one small song. 

Till he reaches the CcBsura. That's a highway ditch 

For him to cross ! He stops — he stares — he snorts : — 
at last 
Sheer terror screwing up his pluck to a desperate pitch. 

He — jumps one little jump, and the ugly gulf is passed. 



1 The allusion here is to Dr. Gottsched, the German Aristarchns of the eigh- 
tce^ith century. He was Professor of Metaphysics, Philosophy, and Logic, in the 
University of Leipsic ; and his error lay in endeavouring to make Poetry meta- 
physical, philosophical, and logical. 



280 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Thou^ meanwliile, speedest far o'er deserts and by streams, 
Like rushing flame ! To thee the same Cgesnra seems 
A chasm in Mount Sinai. The rock is riven in two ! 
Still on! Thy fetlocks bleed, Now for an earthquake 
shock ! 
Hurrah ! thou boundest over, and thine iron shoe 

Charms ratthng thunder and red lightning from the 
rock ! 

Now hither ! Here we are ! Knowest thou this yellow 

sand? 
So! — there! — that's well! Eeel under my controUing 

hand ! 
Tush ! never heed the sweat : — Honour is born of Toil. 

I'll see thee again at sunset, when the southern breeze 
Blows cool. Then will I lead thee o'er a soft green soil, 
And water thee till nightfall in the Middle* Seas. 



Theee stood I in the Camp. 'Twas when the setting sun 

Was crimsoning the tents of the Hussars. 
The booming of the Evening-gun 

Broke on mine ear. A few stray stars 
Shone out, like silverblank medalhons 

Paving a sapi)hire floor. Then flowed in unison the tones 

Of many hautboys, bugles, drums, trombones, 
And fifes, from twenty-two battalions. 

1 Mediterranean. 



FREILIGRATH. 281 

They played, "Give glory unto God out- Lord!" 

A solemn strain of music and sublime, 

That bade Imagination hail a coming time, 
When universal Mind shall break the slaying sword, 

And Sin, and Wrong, and Suffering shall depart 
An Earth Avhich Christian love shall turn to Heaven. 

A dream! — yet still I listened, and ray heart 
Grew tranquil as that Summer-even. 

But soon uprose pale Hecate — she who trances 

The skies with deathly light. Her beams fell wan, but 
mild. 
On the long lines of tents, on swords and lances, 

And on the pyramids of musquets piled 
Around. Then sped from rank to rank 

The signal order, " Tzako ab V The music ceased to 
play. 

The stillness of the grave ensued. I turned away. 
Again my memory's tablets showed a saddening blank I 

Meanwhile another sort of scene 

Was acted at the Outposts. Carelessly I strolled, 
In quest of certain faces, into the Canteen. 

Here wine and brandy, hot or cold, 
Passed round. At one long table Fredericks-d'or 

Glittered a qui mieux mieux with epaulettes, 

And, heedless of the constant call, "TFAo sets?^^ 
Harpwomen played and sang old ballads by the score. 

I sought an inner chamber. Here sat some 

Dragoons and Yagers, who conversed, or gambled, 

Or drank. The dice-box rattled on a drum. 
I chose a seat apart. My speculations rambled. 

24* 



282 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Scarce even a passive listener or beholder, 

I mused: "Give glory " ^'' Qui en veutV^ — the 

sound 

Came from the drum-head. I had half turned round 
When some one touched me on the shoulder. 

" Ha !— is it you ?" " None other." " Well— what news ? 

How goes it in Mulhausen ?" Queries without end 
Succeed, and I reply as briefly as I chuse. 

An hour flies by. "Now then, adieu, my friend !" — 
"rStay! — tell me " "Quick! I am off to Rouge et 

miry— 

"Well— one short word, and then Good Night! — 
GraUe .?"— " Grabbe ? He is dead. Wait : let me see. 
Ay, right! 
We buried him on Friday last. Bon soirP^ 

An icy thrill ran through my veins. 

Dead ! Buried ! Friday last ! — and here ! — His grave 

Profaned by vulgar feet ! Oh, Noble, Gifted, Brave ! 
Bard of 2'he Hundred DaysP — was this to be thy fate 

indeed? 
I wept ; yet not because Life's galling chains 

No longer bound thy spirit to this barren earth ; 

I wept to think of thy transcendant worth 
And genius — and of what had been their meed ! 

I wandered forth into the spacious Night, 
Till the first feelings of my heart had spent 
Their bitterness. Hours passed. There was an Uhlan 
tent 

At hand. I entered. By the moon's blue light 

I A poem by Grabbe thus entitled. 



FREILIGRATH. 283 

I saw some arms and baggage and a heap 
Of straw. Upon this hist I threw 

My weary limbs. In vain? The moanful night-winds 
blew 

About my head and face, and Memory banished Sleep. 

All night he stood, as I had seen him last, 
Beside my couch. Had he indeed forsaken 
The tomb ? Or, did I dream, and shoukl I waken ? 

My thouglits flowed like a river, dark and fast. 
Again I gazed on that columnar brow : 

" Deserted House ! of late so bright with vividest flashes 
Of Intellect and Passion, can it be that thou 

Art now a mass of sparkless ashes ? 

''Those ashes once were watch-fires, by whose gleams 

The glories of the Hohenstauften race,^ 
And Italy's shrines,^ and Greece's hallowed streams^ 

Stood variously revealed — now, softly, as the face 
Of Night illumined by her silver Lamp — 

Now, burning with a deep and living lustre, 
Like the high beacon-lights that stud this Camp, 

Here, far apart, — there, in a circular cluster. 

" This Camp ! Ah, yes ! methinks it images well 

What thou hast been, thou lonely Tower! — 
Moonbeams and lamplight mingled — the deep choral swell 

Of Music in her peals of proudest power. 
And then — the tavern dice-box rattle! 

The Grand and the Familiar fought 

Witliin thee for the mastery ; and thy depth of thought 
And play of wit made every conflict a drawn battle! 

1 The allusions are to Giabbe's historical and illustrative works. 



284 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" And, oh ! that such a mind, so rich, so overflowing 
With ancient lore and modern phantasy, 
And prodigal of its treasures as a tree 

Of golden leaves when Autumn-winds are blowing, 
That such a mind, made to illume and glad 

All minds, all hearts, should have itself become 

Affliction's chosen Sanctuary and Home ! — 
This is in truth most marvellous and sad! 

" Alone the Poet lives — alone he dies. 

Cain-like, he bears the isolating brand 

Upon his brow of sorrow. True, his hand 
Is pure from blood-guilt, but in human eyes 

His is a darker crime than that of Cain, — 
Eebellion against Social Wrong and Law !" 
Groaning, at length I slept, and in my dreams I saw 

The ruins of a Temple on a desolate plain. 



Pg iljcmts. 

"Most weary man! — why wreathest thou 
Again and yet again," methinks I hear you ask, 
"The turban on thy sunburnt brow? 
Wilt never vary 
Thy tristful task. 
But sing, still sing, of sands and seas as now, 
Housed in thy willow zumbuP on the Dromedary ? 

1 Basket. 



FREILIGRATH. 285 

" Thy tent has now o'erniany times 
Been pitched in treeless places on old Amnion's plains ! 
We long to greet in blander climes 
The Love and Laughter 
Thy soul disdains. 
Why wanderest ever thus in prolix rhymes 
Through snows and stony wastes, while we come toiling 
after? 

" Awake ! Thou art as one who dreams ; 
Thy quiver overflows with melancholy sand ! 
Thou faintest in the noontide beams! 
Thy crystal beaker 
Of Song is banned ! 
Filled with the juice of poppies from dull streams 
In sleepy Indian dells, it can but make thee weaker ! 

" O ! cast away the deadly draught. 
And glance around thee then with an awakened eye! 
The waters healthier bards have quaffed 
At Europe's Fountains 
Still babble by, 
Bright now as when the Grecian Summer laughed 
And Poesy's first flowers bloomed on Apollo's mountains. 

" So many a voice thine era hath. 
And thou art deaf to all ! O, study Mankind ! Probe 
The heart. Lay bare its Love and Wrath, 
Its Joy and Sorrow ! 
Not round the globe. 
O'er flood and field and dreary desert-path. 
But into thine own bosom look, and thence thy marvels 
borrow. 



286 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

" Weep ! Let us hear thy tears resound 
From the dark iron concave of Life's Cup of "Woe I 
Weep for the souls of Mankind, bound 
In chains of Error ! 
Our tears will flow 
In sympathy with thine when thou hast wound 
Our feelings up to the proper pitch of Grief or Terror ! 

" Unlock the life-gates of the flood 
That rushes through thy veins ! Like Vultures, we delight 
To glut our appetites with blood ! 
Remorse, Fear, Torment, 
The blackening blight 
Love smites young hearts withal — these be the food 
For us ! Without such stimulants our dull souls lie dor- 
mant ! 

" But no long voyagiugs — oh, no more 
Of the weary East or South — no more of the Simoom — 
No apples from the Dead Sea shore — 
No fierce volcanoes, 
All fire and gloom ! 
Or else, at most, sing hasso^ we implore, 
Of Orient sands, while Europe's flowers monopolise thy 
Sopranos /" 

Thanks, friends, for this your kind advice ! 
Would I could follow it — could bide in balmier lands 1 
But those far arctic tracts of ice, 
Those wildernesses 
Of wavy sands. 
Are the only home I have. They must suffice 
For one whose lonely hearth no smiling Peri blesses. 



FREILIGRATH. 287 

Yet, count me not the more forlorn 
For my barbarian tastes. Pity me not. Oh, no ! 
The heart laid waste by Grief or Scorn, 
Which inly knoweth 
Its own deep woe, 
Is the only Desert. There no spring is born 
Amid the sands — in that no shady Palm-tree groweth I 



^t m\ixit fabg. 

Once more the Phantom Countess, attired in white, ap- 
pears, 

With mourning and with wailing, with tremors and with 
tears. 

Once more appears a-gliding forth from pictures and from 
walls 

In Prussia's gorgeous palaces and old baronial halls — 

And the guards that pace the ramparts and the terrace- 
walks by night 

Are stricken with a speechlessness and swooning at the 

sight. 

O pray for Lady Agnes ! 

Pray for the soul of Lady Agnes ! 

What bodes this resurrection upon our illumined stage ? 

Oomes she perchance to warn and wake a ghostless, god- 
less age ? 

Announces she the death of Kings and Kaisers as of 
yore— 

A funeral and a crowning — a pageant, and no more ? 



288 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

I know not — but men whisper through, the land, from 

south to north, 

That a deeper grief, a wider woe, to-day has called her 

forth. 

O pray for Lady Agnes ! 

Pray for the hapless Lady Agnes ! 

She nightly weeps — they say so ! — o'er the beds of Young 

and Old, 
O'er the infant's crimson cradle — o'er the couch of silk 

and gold. 
For hours she stands, with clasped hands, lamenting by 

the side 
Of the sleeping Prince and Princess — of the Landgrave 

and his bride ; 
And at Avhiles along the corridors is heard her thrilling 

cry— 

"Awake, awake, my kindred! — The Time of Times is 

nigh!" 

O pray for Lady Agnes ! 

Pray for the suffering Lady Agnes ! 

" Awake, awake, my kindred ! O saw ye what I see, 
Sleep never more would seal your eyes this side eternity ! 
Through the hundred-vaulted cavern-crypts where I and 

mine abide, 
Boom the thunders of the rising storm, the surgings of the 

tide — 
You note them not : you blindly face the hosts of Hate 

and Fate ! 

Alas ! your eyes will open soon — too soon, yet all too 

late!" 

O pray for Lady Agnes ! 

Pray for the soul of Lady Agnes ! 



FREILIGRATH. 289 

" Oh, God! Oh, God! the coming hour arouses even the 

Dead : 
Yet the Living thus can shimber on, like things of stone 

or lead. 
The dry bones rattle in their slirouds, but you, you make 

no sign ! 
I dare not hope to pierce your souls by those weak words 

of mine, 
Else would I warn from niglit to morn, else cry, 'O 

Kings, be just! 
Be just, if bold! lioose where you may: bind only 

where you must!' " 

O pray for Lady Agnes! 

Pray for the wretched Lady Agnes 1 

"I, sinful one, in Orlamund I slew my cliildren fair : 

Thence evermore, till time be o'er, my dole and my de- 
spair. 

Of that one crime in olden time was born my endless 
woe; 

For that one crime I wander now in darkness to and fro. 

Think ye of me, and what I dree, you whom no law con- 
trols, 

Who slay your people's holiest hopes, their liberties, their 

souls!" 

O pray for Lady Agnes ! 

Pray for the hapless Lady Agnes ! 

" Enough ! I must not say Good Night, or bid the doomed 
'FnYQwell ! 

Down to mine own dark home I go — my Hades' dungeon 
cell. 

Above my head lie brightly spread the flowers that Sum- 
mer gives, 

25 



290 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Free waters flow, fresh breezes blow, all nature laughs 
and lives ; 

But where you tread the flowers drop dead, the grass 
grows pale and sere, 

And round you floats in clotted waves Hell's lurid atmos- 
phere!" 

O pray for Lady Agnes ! 

Pray for the Avandering Lady Agnes ! 

She lifts on high her pallid arms — she rises from the 
floor, 

Turns round and round Avithout a sound, then passes 
through the door. 

But through the open trellises the Avarden often sees 

Her moonpale drapery floating down the long dim gal- 
leries ; 

And the guards that pace the ramparts and the terrace- 
walks by night 

Are stricken Avith a speechlessness and swooning at the 

sight. 

O pray for Lady Agnes ! 

And myriads more Avith Lady Agnes I 



O! THINK not the Twain have gone down to their graves I 
O ! say not that Mankind should basely despair, 

Because Earth is yet trodden by tyrants and slaves, 
And the sighs of the N.>ble are spent on the air! 



FREILIGRATH. 291 

Oh, no ! though the Pole, from the swamps of the N"orth, 

Sees ti-carapled in shreds the briglit banner he bore; 
Though Italy's heroes in frenzy pour forth 

The rich blood of their hearts on the dark dungeon- 
floor, 

Still live- 
Ever live in their might 
Both Freedom and Right! 

Who fight in the van of the battle must fall — 

All honor be theirs ! — 'tis for Us to press on ! 
They have struck the first links from the gyves that en- 
thral 
Men's minds ; and the half of our triumph is won — 
The swift-coming triumph of Freedom and Right! 

Yes! tremble, ye Despots ! the hour will have birth 
"When, as vampires and bats, by the arrows of Light, 
Your nature, your names, will be blasted from Earth ! 
For still- 
Still live in their might 
Fair Freedom and Right! 

Gone down to the grave ? No ! if ever their breath 

Gave life to the paralysed nations, 'tis now, 
When the serf at length wakes, as from torpor or death, 
And the sunshine of Hope gleams anew on his brow ! 
They traverse the globe in a whirlwind of fire — 

They sound their deep trumpet o'er Ocean and Land, 
Enkindling in myriads the quenchless desire 
To arm as one man for the Conflict at hand! 
Oh! still- 
Still live in their might 
Both Freedom and Right ! 



292 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

They rouse even dastards to combat and dare, 

Till the last of oppression's bastiles be overthrown ; 
When they conquer not here, they are conquering else- 
where. 
And ere long they will conquer all Earth for their own. 
Then first will be born the Millennium of Peace — 

And, O God ! what a garland will bloom in the sun, 
When the oak-leaf of Deutschland, the olive of Greece, 
And the trefoil of Ireland are blended in one !* 
As they will ; 
For still in their might 
Live Freedom and Eight ! 

And what, though before that Millennium can dawn, 

The bones of our Bravest must bleach on the plain ? 
Thank Heaven! they will feel that the swords they have 
drawm 

Will be sheathed by the victors, undimmed by a stain ! 
And their names through all time will be shrined in each 
heart 

As the moral Colurabuses — they who unfurled 
That sunbeamy standard that shone as a chart 

To illumine our way to the better New World I 



1 O, Oott, welch ein Kranz wird sie glorreich dann Zieren I 
Die Olive des Griechen, das Klecblatt des Iren, 
Und vor Allem germanisches Eichengeflecht, 
—Die Freiheit I das Recht I 



MATTIIISSON. 293 



FRIEDRICH VON MATTHISSON. 



gilt €kuing ITaitbscHpc* 

SuxsET pale 

Gilds the vale, 
And the pall of Evening slowly falls 
Over Waldburg's ruined castle walls. 

Full and free 

Sweeps the sea, 
And, far twinkling through the liquid green 
Many a fisher's swan- white bark is seen. 

Silver sand 

Strews the strand, 
While the clouds, red, pale, and purple, show 
Their gay glories in the wave below. 

And, behold! 

Hued as gold. 
Wild flowers climb the promontory's rock, 
Where the fluttering sea-fowl swarm and flock. 

In the skies 

Poplars rise. 
And the broad oaks ever darklier frown. 
And the mountain-streamlets ripple down. 

25* 



294 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

While, above 
Strand and grove, 
Orchard, rivulet and dusky dell, 
Stands the moss o'ershaded hermit's cell. 

But, night soon 
Brings the moon. 
And no more the golden sunset falls' 
Over Waldburg's ruined castle-walls. 

Moonlight pale 

Paints the vale. 
And, in Fancy's ear, sad spirit-lays 
Ohaunt the memory of old hero-days. 



I THINK on thee 

"When through the vale 

Is thrilling the wail 

Of the sweet and mateless nightingale, 

Then, love, I think on thee: 

When thinkest thou on me ? 

I think on thee 
Whei-e the ruin is grey, 
Where the moon's faint ray 
Over urns and mounds is wont to play- 
There, love, I think on thee; 
Where thinkest thou on me ? 



MATTHISSON. 295 

I think on thee 

With trembhngs and fears, 

And fast-falling tears, 

And sleepless emotions that pierce me like spears — 

Ah! thus I think on thee: 

How thiukest thou on me ? 

Oh ! til ink on me 

Till above yon star, 

That burneth afar, 

Where Virtue and Innocence only are, 

One day I meet with thee ; 

Oh ! think till then on me ! 



f tijc Selobeb ^m. 

Through pine-grove and greenwood, o'er hills and by 

hollows, 
Thine image my footsteps incessantly follows. 
And sweetly thou smilest, or veilest thine eye, 
While floats the white moon up the wastes of the sky. 

In tlie sheen of the fire and the purple of dawn 
I see thy light figure in bower and on lawn. 
By mountain and woodland it dazes my vision 
Like some brilliant shadow from regions Elysian. 

Ofthas it, in dreamings, been mine to behold 
Thee, fairy-like, seated on throne of red gold; 



296 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Oft have I, upborne through Olympus's portals, 
Beheld thee as Hebe among the Immortals. 

A tone from the valley, a voice from the height, 
Eeechoes thy name like the Spirit of Night ; 
The zephyrs that woo the wild flowers on the heath 
Are warm with the odorous life of thy breath. 

And oft when in stilliest midnight my soul 
Is borne through the stars to its infinite goal, 
I long to meet thee, my Beloved, on that shore 
Where hearts reunite to be sundered no more. 

Joy swiftly departeth ; soon vanisheth Sorrow ; 
Time wheels in a circle of morrow and morrow ; 
The sun shall be ashes, the earth waste away. 
But Love shall reign king in his glory for aye. 



JOHANN GAUDENZ BARON V. SALIS SEEWIS. 



€\iuxh\ntB$, 



See how the day beameth brightly before us I 
Blue is the firmament — green is the earth — 

Grief hath no voice in tlie Universe-chorus — 
Nature is ringing with music and mirth. 



SALIS SEEVVIS. 297 

Lift up the looks tliat are sinking in sadness — 
Gaze ! and if Beauty can capture thy soul, 

Virtue herself will allure thee to gladness — 
Gladness, Philosophy's guerdon and goal. 

Enter the treasuries Pleasure uncloses — 

List! how she thrills in the nightingale's lay! 
Breathe! she is wafting thee sweets from the roses; 

Feel ! she is cool in the rivulet's play ; 
Taste ! from the grape and the nectarine gushing 

Flows the red rill in the beams of the sun — 
Green in the hills, in the flowergroves blushing, 

Look ! she is always and everywhere one. 

Banish, then, mourner, the tears that are trickling 

Over the cheeks that should rosily bloom ; 
Why should a man, like a girl or a sickling. 

Suffer his lamp to be quenched in the tomb? 
Still may we battle for Goodness and Beauty ; 

Still hath Philanthropy much to essay : 
Glory rewards the fulfilment of Duty ; 

Rest will pavilion the end of our way. 

"What, though corroding and multiplied sorrows, 

Legion-like, darken this planet of ours, 
Hope is a balsam the wounded heart borrows 

Ever when Anguish hath palsied its powers ; 
Wherefore, though Fate play the part of a traitor, 

Soar o'er the stars on the pinions of Hope, 
Fearlessly certain that sooner or later 

Over the stars thy desires shall have scope. 



298 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Look round about on the face of Creation ! 

Still is God's Earth undistorted and bright ; 
Comfort the captives to long tribulation, 

Thus shalt thou reap the more perfect delight. 
Love! — but if Love be a hallowed emotion, 

Purity only its rapture should share ; 
Love, then, with willing and deathless emotion, 

All that is just and exalted and fair. 

Act! — for in Action are Wisdom and Glory; 

Fame, Immortality — these are its crown : 
"Wouldst thou illumine the tablets of Story, 

Build on achievements thy Dome of Renown. 
Honour and Feeling were given thee to cherish, — 

Cherish them, then, though all else should decay : 
Landmarks be these that are never to perish, 

Stars that will shine on thy duskiest day. 

Courage ! — Disaster and Peril, once over. 

Freshen the spirit, as showers the grove : 
O'er the dim graves that the cypresses cover 

Soon the Forget-Me-Not rises in love. 
Courage, then, friends ! Though the universe crumble, 

Innocence, dreadless of danger beneath. 
Patient and trustful and joyous and humble. 

Smiles through the ruin on Darkness and Death. 



SALIS SEEWIS. 299 



^t §xubt. 

The Grave, it is deep and soundless, 
And canopied over with clouds; 

And trackless and dim and boundless 
Is the Unknown Land that it shrouds. 

In vain may the nightingales warble 
Their songs — the roses of Love 

And Friendship grow white on the marble 
The Living have reared above. 

The virgin, bereft at her bridal 
Of him she has loved, may weep ; 

The wail of the orphan is idle ; 

It breaks not the buried one's sleep. 

Yet everywhere else shall mortals 

For Peace unavaiUngly roam : 
Except through the Shadowy Portals 

Goeth none to his genuine home! 

And the heart that Tempest and Sorrow 
Have beaten against for years, 

Must look for a sunnier morrow 
Beyond this Temple of Tears. 



300 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



AUGUST ADOLF LUDWIG FOLLEN. 



Ring, ring, blithe Freedom's Song ! 
Roll forth as water strong 

Down rocks in sheets ! 
Pale stands the Gallic swarm — 
Our hearts beat high and warm — 
Youth nerves the Teuton's arm 

For glorious feats ! 

God : Father ! to thy praise 
The spirit of old days 

In Deutschland's Youth 
Spreads as a burning brand ! 
We hail the fourfold band, 
God, Freedom, Fatherland, 

Old German Truth ? 

Pnretongued and pious be, 
Manful and chaste and free, 

Great Hermann's race ! 
And, while God's judgments light 
On Tyranny's brute might. 
Build We the People's Right 

On Freedom's base ! 



STOLBERG. 301 



For now in German breasts 
Fair Freedom manifests 

Her power at length ; 
Her worth is understood ; 
We vow to her our blood ; 
We feel that Brotherhood 

Alone is Strength ! 

Ring, then, glad Song of Zeal, 
Loud as the thunderpeal 

That rocks the sphere ! 
Our hearts, hopes, objects. One, 
Stand we. One Starry Zone, 
And round One Sun, the Throne, 

Be our career ! 



FRIEDRICH LEOPOLD COUNT STOLBERG. 



Co a Ponntahi: Catarad. 

TJntameable Young One ! 

How loudly, how proudly. 
Thou thunderest forth from the firecloven mountain I 

No mortal eye ever beheld 

Thy cradle, thou Strong One ! 

On no ear ever knelled 
The first cry of the Babe, the Wild Babe of the Fountain ! 
26 



302 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

How beauteous thou art, 

With those long silver locks! 

How di-eadful thou art 
In each volley that shocks the reverberant rocks! 

Pines tremble before thee ; 

The roots of their oldest 

Thou wrenchest, like Death ! 

Kocks vainly implore thee; 

Thou graspest the boldest, 
And hurlest them, laughing, like pebbles, beneath I 

Long ago, for thy glofy, 
The sun of the hoary 
Mists over thee made 
An imperial pavilion! 
Long ago he arrayed 
The bright bows that o'erarch thee in gold and vermillion ! 

And sweepest thou forth 

To tlie green Summer sea ? 
Is thy liberty, then, of no worth ? 
Bring the mutinous crags, the torn tannen, no glee, 
The reverberant cliffs no delight unto thee? 

What! speedest along 

To the sleek Summer sea, 
When as yet thou art free and art strong, 

Yea, as a god strong, 

And as a god free ? 

The waves, as they bask in the richness of Noon, 

Seem full of luxuriant repose, 
IRor look they less calm in the beams of the Moon, 

Less bright when the Summer eve glows, 



STOLBERG. 303 

Bat, what profits the boon 
Of luxnriaiit repose, 
Oh ! what are the smiles of the friendliest moon, 
Or the lustre that glows 
In the West at the close 
Of a long Summer day, 
If the heart, if the soul have been yielded away, 
And are sleeping in Slavery's harness ? 
Beware ! — there are mists atween thee 
And the Farness, 
And masked is the snare 
Of the specious Betrayer ! 
Beware ! 
There is Death in the green of the meadowy Sea ! 

O ! rush not along 
To the smooth Summer Sea I 
When as yet thou art free and art strong, 
Yea, as a god strong, 
And as a god free ! 



Life's Day is darked with Storm and III ; 
The Night of Death is mild and still : 
The consecrated Grave receives 
Our frames as Earth doth withered leaves. 

There sunbeams shine, there dewy showers 
Fall bright as on the garden-bowers ; 



304 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And Friendsliip's tear-drops, in the ray 
Of Hope, are brighter still than they. 

The Mother^ from her lampless dome 

Calls out to all, '^Come home! Come home!" 

O ! could we once behold her face, 

We ne'er would shun her dark embrace. 



ERNST MORITZ ARNDT. 



iljc §txmmx$ Jfalljcrlnnb. 

Where is the German's Fatherland ? 
Is't Prussia? Swabia? Is't the strand 
Where grows the vine, Avhere flows the Rhine? 
Is't where the gull skims Baltic's brine? 
— No! — yet more great and far more grand 
Must be the German's Fatherland ! 

How call they then the German's land ? 
Bavaria? Brunswick? Hast thou scanned 
It where the Zuyder Zee extends ? 
Where Styrian toil the iron bends ? 
— No, brother, no ! — thou hast not spanned 
The German's genuine Fatherland ! 

1 Earth. 



ARNDT. 305 

Is theu the German's Fatherland 
Wwstphalia ? Poraerania ? Stand 
"Where Zurich's waveless water sleeps ; 
Where Weser winds, where Danube sweeps: 
Hast found it now ? — Not yet! Demand 
Elsewhere the German's Fatherland ! 

Then say, Where lies the German's land? 
How call they that unconquered land ? 
Is't where Tyrol's green mountains rise ? 
The Switzer's land I dearly prize. 
By Freedom's purest breezes ftinned — 
But no ! 'tis not the German's land ! 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land ? 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
'Tis surely Austria, proud and bold, 
In wealth unmatched, in glory old? 
O ! none shall write her name on sand ; 
But she is not the German's land ! 

Say then. Where lies the German's land! 
Baptize that great, that ancient land ! 
Is't Alsace? Or Lorraine — that gem 
Wrenched from the Imperial Diadem 
By wiles which princely treachery planned? 
No ! these are not the German's land ! 

Where, therefore, lies the German's land ? 
Name now at last that mighty land ! 
Where'er resounds the German tongue — 
Where German hymns to God are sung — 
There, gallant brother, take thy stand ! 
That is the German's Fatherland ! 
26* 



306 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

That is his land, the land of lands, 
Where vows bind less than clasped hands, 
Where Valour lights the flashing eye, 
Where Love and Truth in deep hearts lie, 
And Zeal enkindles Freedom's brand, — 
That is the German's Fatherland ! 

That is the German's Fatherland 
Where Hate pursues each foreign band — 
Where German is the name for friend, 
Where Frenchman is the name for fiend. 
And France's yoke is spurned and banned — 
That is the German's Fatherland! 

Tliat is the German's Fatherland ! 

Great God ! look down and bless that land ! 

And give her noble children souls 

To cherish while Existence rolls, 

And love with heart, and aid with hand, 

Their Universal Fatherland! 



AUGUST VON KOTZEBUE. 



§t Peng Hub Mlsz, 

No beauty, no glory, remaineth 
Below the unbribable skies : 

All Beauty but winneth and waneth- 
AU Glory but dazzles and dies. 



KOTZEBUE. 307 

Since multitudes cast in a gay mould 
Before us have lived and have laughed, 

To the sluinberers under the claymould 
Let goblet on goblet be quaffed ! 

For millions in centuries after 

Decay shall have crumbled our bones 

As lightly with revel and laughter 
Will fill their progenitors' thrones. 

Here banded together in union 

Our bosoms are joyous and gay. 
How blest, could our festive communion 

Remain to enchant us for aye ! 

But Change is omnipotent ever; 

Thus knitted we cannot remain ; 
Wide waves and high hills will soon sever 

The hnks of our brotherly chain. 

Yet, even though far disunited. 

Our hearts are in felloAvship still. 
And all, if but one be delighted, 

Will hear it with Sympathy's thrill. 

And if, after years have gone o'er us, 

Fate bring us together once more. 
Who knows but the mirth of our chorus 

May yet be as loud as before ! 



308 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



KARL EGON EBERT. 



[" Swevting, Duke of the Saxons, was conquered in 435 by Frotho IV., King of 
the Danes, who imposed upon the Saxons a heavy yearly poll-tax. The Saxons in 
vain attempted to recover their independence ; and Frotho humbled them still 
more by making them pay a tax for every one of their limbs that was two feet long. 
To keep the Saxons better in subjection, Frotho had thought it prudent to make his 
son Ingel marry the daughter of Swerting, in the hope of binding the latter to his 
interests by this alliance. But Swerting did not desert his own nation— he planned 
the destruction of the conqueror and oppressor of his country, and accomplished it 
nearly in the manner related in Ebert's ballad." — M. Klauer-Klattowski, Ger- 
man Ballads and Romances, p. 303.] 

O, A waerior's feast was Swerting's in his Burg beside 

the Rhine ; 
There from gloomy iron bell- cups they drank the Saxon 

wine, 
And the viands were served in iron up, in coldest iron all, 
And the sullen clash of iron arms resounded through the 

hall. 

Uneasily sat Frotho there, the Tyrant of the Danes ; 
"With louring brow he quaffed his cup, then eyed the iron 

chains 
That hung and clanked like manacles at Swerting's arms 

and breast, 
And the iron studs and linked rings that bossed his ducal 

vest. 



EBERT, 309 

" What may tliis bode, this chilhng gloom, Sir Duke and 

Brother Knights ? 
Why meet I here such wintry cheer, such sorry sounds 

and sights ? 
Out on your shirts of iron ! Will ye bear to have it told 
That I found ye thus when Danish knights go clad in silks 

and gold ?"— 

"King! Gold befits the freeman, the Iron marks the 
slave ; 

So thought and spake our fathers, and their sons are just 
and brave : 

Thyself hast bound the iron round thy proud but con- 
quered Ibe ; 

If thy chains had been but golden we had burst them 
long ago. 4» 

" But I came not here to hold a parle, or tell a tristful 

tale, 
But to bid the dastard tremble and to make the tyrant 

quail. 
O, strong. Sir King, is iron, but the heart is stronger still, 
Nor Earth nor Hell can cast in thrall a Peoj^le's mighty 

Will!" 

While his words yet rang like cymbals, there strode into 

the hall 
Twelve swarthy Saxon Rittersmen, with flaming torches 

tall; 
They stood to catch a signal-glance from Swerting's eagle 

eye, 
Then again they rushed out, waving their pitchy brands 

on hiffh. 



310 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

The Danish King grows paler, yet he brims his goblet 

higher ; 
But the sultry hall is dark with smoke ; he hears the hiss 

of fire ! 
Yes! the Red Avenger marches on his fierce and swift 

career, 
And from man to man goes round the whisper, "Brother, 

it is near !" 

Up starts the King; he turns to fly; Duke Swerting 

holds him fast. 
" Nay, Golden King, the dice are down, and thou must 

bide the cast. 
If thy chains can fetter this fell foe, the glory be thine 

own, 
Thine be the»^axon Land for aye, and thine the Saxon 

throne!" 

But hotter, hotter burns the air all through that lurid 

hall. 
And louder groan the blackened beams ; the crackling 

rafters fall. 
And ampler waxes momently the glare, the volumed flash, 
Till at last the roof-tree topples down with stunning 

thundercrash. 

Then in solemn prayer that gallant band of Self-devoted 

kneel — 
"Just God! assoil our souls, thus driven to Freedom's 

last appeal !" 
And Frotho writhes and rages, fire stifling his quick gasp, 
But, strong and terrible as Death, his foe maintains his 

grasp. 



IMMERMANN. 



311 



"Behold, thou haughty tyrant, behold what Men can 
dare! 

So triumph such, — so perish, too, enslavers everywhere !" 

And the billowy flames, while yet he speaks, come roar- 
ing down the hall. 

And the Fatherland is loosed for aye from Denmark's 
iron thrall I 



KARL IMMERMANN. 



What riotous din is ringing ? 

What wassailers throng the house? 
The Student of Prague is singing 

The praise of his wild carouse. 

1 This ballad is founded on fact. In a note at the end of M. Klauer's volume yre 
have the genuine history of the hero, given in a narrative transcribed from Feszler 
and Fischer's Eunomia, for July, 1805. The student was the son of a Pomeranian 
country clergyman, and was sent to Prague for the completion of his education. 
There his youth, temperament, and freedom from restraint soon led hiin into ex- 
cesses, which increased uutil he became a confirmed libertine. He ceased to cor- 
respond with his kindred : and his father, preyed on by anxiety and grief, at length 
fell mortally ill. His mother now wrote to him, adjuring him to return and receive 
the dying benediction of the parent who had reared him in the love and fear of 
God ; but in vain ; the student, considering her story an invention to wile him 
home, refused to attach credit to it, and pursued his career of dissipation at Prague. 
Time wheeled on ; at last, one night, as the student lay in bed, he was startled by a 
rustling sound nigh him, and in the same moment a gentle current of air passed 
over his face. Turning round with an involuntary shudder, he beheld a phantom 



312 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

With bloodshot eyes and glowing, 
He shouts like one possessed, 

His goblet overflowing, 

His head on his leman's breast. 

As pallid as alabaster, 

The servant ventures in : 
" 'Tis midnight, O, my master ! 

Cease now, at least, from sin !" — 
" Avaunt, thou croaking booby ! 

I brook no babble from thee; 
As long as the wine looks ruby 

Eight jovial I swear to be !" 

He drinks from his goblet faster ; 
Within lies a coiled worm : 



leaning over the bed-side, and contemplating him with looks of the tenderest pity. 
It was the apparition of his dying father ! Terror mastered him at the sight ; he 
seized a sword that hung against the wall, and made a thrust at the spectre, which 
immediately disappeared. The student was now seriously alarmed, as all his de- 
pendence was upon his father, and next day he set out for Pomerania. But before 
he had accomplished more thanhalf his journey homeward, a black letter met him, 
nnd, opening it, he found that it announced the death of his father, After a num- 
ber of preliminary details, the following account was given of the last moments of 
the deceased.—" The desire of the sick man to see his child once more, the father's 
anguish at the thought of his son's depravity and obduracy augmented hourly. 
On the last evening of his life never a minute elapsed that he did not enquire, on 
the occasion of the slightest noise or movement near him, ' Has he come yet? Is 
he there?' —and when answered, ' Alas, no !' he would break forth into piteous lam- 
entations over the wretched state of his lost son. Midnight came, passed; he grew 
fainter and fainter. At one o'clock he had sunk into a state of strange calmness. 
It was thought that he slept. His family surrounded his bed. On a sudden a 
trembling came over him ; he turned himself round, and lifting his eyes to his 
daughter, who was aflfectionately watching by him, he exclaimed in a hollow voice, 
' All is over ! My reprobate son has just struck at me with his sword !' Speech 
and consciousness then deserted him. Towards the dawning of day he gave up the 
ghost."' M. Klauer's narrative, of which this is an abstract, closes here : the bal- 
lad, it will be i)erceived, carries the story further, but whether according to the 
strict truth or not, we cannot p.eiend to say. 



IMMERMANN. 313 

" God gives thee a sign, my master! 

It saith, Repent ! Reform !"— 
" Truce, dolt, to thy coffin-faces ! 

Go, preach to the fools that will hear ; 
Thus locked in my leman's embraces, 

What accident have I to fear?" 

He plays with her night-black tresses ; 

She breaks from his arms by force ; 
Her hand on her heart she presses ; 

She shrieks, and drops down a corse ! 
Then steps the servant past her, 

And falls upon his knee : 
*' God shews thee a sign, O, master, 

A fearful sign to thee!" — 

"Away, thou hound, to the devil! 

Red gold have I still in store 
To win me wherewith to revel. 

And fairer lemans a score. 
So long as my dotard father 

Takes care of this purse of mine, 
So long, by hell, will I gather 

The roses of Love and wine." 

The servant, shuddering, fetches 

Away the accusing Dead : 
And the wild young Student stretches 

His wasted limbs in bed. 
The lurid lamp is shooting 

A bluer glare anon ; 
The owls Avithout are hooting; 

The hollow bell tolls "One!" 
27 



:314 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

"When lo! a charnel vapour 

Pervades the Student's room : 
Then dies the darkening taper; 

And, shimmering through the gloom, 
A Shadow with look of sorrow 

Bends over the reckless boy, 
Who dreams of new pleasures to-morrow, 

And laughs his libertine joy. 



Its warning hand on high ; 
The Student starts ; he gazes ; 

He grasps his bed-sword nigh ; 
He strikes at what resembles 

His father's features pale ; 
And the stricken Phantom trembles, 

And vanishes with a wail. 

The wintry morn is dawning 

In ashy-grey and red ; 
The servant undraws the awning 

That screens his master's bed ; 
And a black-edged letter, weeping, 

He gives the startled youth ;^ 
And the Student's flesh is creeping, 

For he fears the dreadful truth. 

" From thy mother, broken-hearted. 
And widowed now by thee — 

Thy father has departed 
This life in agony. 

I The rapid conveyance of this letter is of course a poetical license. 



IMMERMANN. 315 

Whole nights I saw him languish ; 

And still he called in wild 
And ceaseless tones of anguish 

For thee, his ruined child. 

" At last he lay as tranced ; 

His struggles appeared to cease, 
And I fondly hoped and fancied 

His spirit was now at peace ; 
But soon I heard him crying, 

'He strikes me with his sword!' 
And his bitter curse in dying 

On his hardened son was poured." 

The parricide Student ponders, 

But word he utters not ; 
He leaves the house and wanders 

To a lone and desolate spot. 
With scissors he there divests his 

Proud head of its clustering hair, 
And low on his hands he rests his 

Shorn skull and temples bare.^ 

And now what chant funereal, 

What feasters fill the house? 
Their chant is a dirge of burial. 

Their feast a death-carouse. 
They drain the funeral-bowl off, 

And chorus in accents vague 
A hymn to the rest of the soul of 

The penitent Student of Prague. 

1 Und nimmt in beide Hiinde 
Den kahlgeschorneu Kopf , 
"and takes the bald-sliorn head in both hands." This passage appears to us tn- 
consequent. 



316 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



ALOYS SCHREIBER. 



Look — look — tliis wine is German ! 

Therefore streams it full and flowing, 

Therefore beams it bold and glowing, 
Therefore, like a thirsty merman, 

Quaff the brilliant cup divine ; 

Brother, this is German wine ! 

Fill — fill — a bumper goblet ! 

Fill it high, and toast our olden 

Fatherland, and them, the golden 
Maids and men who aye ennoble it ! 

Fill the purple cup divine; 

Brother, this is German wine ! 

Drink — drink — to Ancient Usage ; 

May their memory greenly flourish 

Who of yore were first to nourish 
Flesh and soul with this, and grew sage, 

Quafiing such immortal wine. 

Drink the Fathers of the Vine ! 

Toast — toast — the resurrection 
Of our country from her torpor ! 
We have spurned the French Usurper ; 



SHENKENDORF. 3l7 

Freedom binds us and Affection, 
Me with thee, and mine with thine: 
Toast our triumph liere in wine ! 

German worth and German wine, 
German speech and German manners, 
Be the motto on our banners ! 

None can tremble, none can pine, 

While he drinks of German wine ! 



FERDINAND GOTTFRIED MAX V. SHEN- 
KENDORF. 



g^nbrcas Jiofer. 

"Victory! Victory! Inspruck's taken 

By the Vintner of Passayer !"^ 
"What wild joy the sounds awaken ? 

Hearts grow bolder, faces gayer ; 
Maidens, leaving duller labours, 

Weave the wreaths they mean to proffer 
All the students, all the neighbours, 

March with music out to Hofer. 



1 Hofer kept an inn at Passeier, his birth-place ; and even after he had taken up 
arms, he always went among the peasantry by the title of der Sandicirth, the Pub- 
lican. 

27* 



318 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Till the Chief, commanding silence, 

Speaks, with tone and aspect sternest — 
" Men ! lay down your trumpery vi'lins ! 

Death and God are both in earnest ! 
Not for Mu»ic^ not for Glory^ 

Leave I icives mid orphans weeping ; 
Perish Hofer's name in story ! 

He but seeks one goal unsleeping. 

" Kneel in prayer, and chant your ros'ries ! 

Theirs is music meet to cheer ye. 
When your hearts in speech tliat glows rise, 

God the Loed may deign to hear ye. 
Pray for me a sinner, lowly. 

Pray for our great Kaiser loudly •,^ 
God keep Prince and People holy ! 

May both guard the sceptre proudly ! 

Me, my time is short for suing ; 

Shew God what and how the case is ; 
Count him up what Dead are strewing 

Level plains and lofty places ; 
State what hosts yet shield the Wronger,"* 

And what clans of Austrian bowmen 
Speed the, shout and shaft no longer : — 

God alone can crush our foemen." 

1 Betet leise fiir niich Armen, 
Betet hint fiir unsein Kaiser. 
Viz .-—Pray »oftly for me [a] poor [sinner] 
Pray aloud for our Emperor. 
I quote these lines because, upon casting my eye over the translation, " a sinner 
lowly" strikes me as somewhat of an ambiguity, 
a Buonaparte. 



MOSEN. 319 



JULIUS MOSEN. 



at;ijc geatlj of foftr. 

At Mantua long had lain in chains 
The gallant Hofer bound ; 

But now his day of doom was come — 
At morn the deep roll of the drum 
Resounded o'er the soldiered plains. 

O Heaven ! with what a deed of dole 
The hundred thousand Avrongs were crowned 
Of trodden-down Tyrol !^ 

With iron-fettered arms and hands 
The hero moved along. 

His heart was calm, his eye was clear- 
Death was for traitor slaves to fear ! 
He oft amid his mountain bands, 

Where Inn's dark wintry waters roll, 
Had faced it with his battle-song, 
The Sandwirth of Tyrol. 

Anon he passed the fortress-wall. 
And heard the wail that broke 

From many a brother thrall within. 
''Farewell I" he cried. "Soon may you win 

1 I suppose I need scarcely remark that this word is properly accented on the 
eecond syllable. 



320 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Your liberty ! God sliield you all! 

Lament Dot me! I see my goal. 
Lament the land that wears the yoke, 
Your land and mine, Tyrol!" 

So through the files of musqueteers 
Undauntedly he passed, 

And stood within the hollow square. 
Well might he glance around him there, 
And proudly think on by-gone years ! 
Amid such serfs his bannerol, 
Thank God ! had never braved the blast 
On thy green hills, Tyrol ! 

They bade him kneel ; but he with all 
A patriot's truth replied — 

"I kneel alone to God on high — 
As thus I stand so dare I die, 
As oft I fought so let me fall ! 

Farewell" — his breast a moment swoll 
"With agony he strove to hide — 
"My Kaiser and Tyrol!" 

No more emotion he betrayed. 
Again he bade farewell 

To Francis and the faithful men 
Who girt his throne. His hands were then 
Unbound for yu-ayer, and thus he prayed : — 
" God of the Free, receive my soul ! 
And you, slaves, Fire !" So bravely fell 
Thy foremost man, Tyrol ! 



LAMEV. 321 



AUGUST LAMEY. 



I AM one of some half thousaud from the millions of a 
reign 
Departed with the years before the flood — 
A reign of Anarchy and Grandeur, Intellect and Crime, 

Which witnessed all of 111 or Good 
The lifewhile of a world can show — phenomena such 
as Time 
Shall never, never see again ! 

Then spread far forth, like billowy fire, the feelings that 
of old 
Had smouldered in the bosoms of the Few ; 
Immortal Freedom then was born, and dwelt with 
mortal men ; 
And France, the Thundress, rose and threw 
Her giant shadow o'er the quaking earth ! Since then 
Hath half a stormy century rolled ! 

You, Germans, you are dead in soul! Your luxury is 
Kepose ; 
"We hated that I The price of Liberty 



1 The reader will please to remark that the author of this poem is a native ol 
Strasburg, and, as such, considers himself a Frenchman. 



322 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

We knew to be our hearts' best blood, and that we 
freely gave ; 
We poured it forth in oceans, we ! 
Even till we saw the Night again close o'er us like a 
grave, 
Where first our sun of glory rose ! 

We have learned all terrible truths that Revolution came 
to teach — 
We have known all marvellous changes Time could 
show — 
We have seen the Phoenix of a world whose ashes on 
the winds 
Were scattered long and long ago ! 
Therefore, pale Youth of Germany, we think not with 
your minds, 
Nor can you understand our speech ! 



FRIEDRICH AUGUST Y. HEYDEN. 



^t fast eorbs of gil-ia$satt. 

Farewell for ever to all I love ! 

To river and rock, farewell! 
To Zoumlah's gloomful cypress-grove, 

And Shaarmal's tulipy dell 1 



HEYDEN. 323, 

To Deeiiween-Kullaha's light blue bay, 

And Oreb's lonely strand ! 
My race is run — I am called away — 

I go to tlie Lampless Land. 

'LlahHu! 
I am called away from the light of day 

To my tent in the Dark Dark Land ; 

1 have seen the standard of All stained 

With the Itlood of the Brave and Free, 
And the Kaaba's Venerable Stone profaned 

By the truculent Wahabee. 
O Allah, for the light of another sun, 

AVith my Bazra sword in hand! 
But I rave in vain — my course is run — 

I go to the Lampless Land. 

'LlahHu! 
My course is run — my goal is won— 

I go to the Dark Dark Land ! 

Yet, why should I live a day— an hour? 

The friends I valued lie low ; 
My sisters dance in the halls of the Giaour ; 

My brethren fight for the foe. 
None stood by the banner this arm unfurled 

Save Kharada's mountain band. 
'Tis well that I leave so base a world. 

Though to dwell in the Lampless Land— 
'Llah Hu ! 
'Tis well that I leave so ftilse a world, 

Though to dwell in the Dark Dark Land ! 

Even she, my loved and lost Ameen, 
The moon-white pearl of my soul. 



324 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

Could pawn her peace for the show and sheen 

Of silken Istambol ! 
How little did I bode what a year would see 

AVhen we parted at Sauiarkhand — 
My bride in the harem of the Osm^nlee, 

Myself in tlie Lampless Land ! 

'Llah Hu ! 
My bride in the harem of the Osmanlee, 

Myself in the Dark Dark Land ! 

We weep for the Noble who perish young, 

Like flowers before their bloom — 
The great-souled Few, who, unseen and unsung, 

Go down to the charnel's gloom ; 
But, written on the brow of each, if Man 

Could read it and understand, 
Is the changeless decree of Heaven's Deewan — 

We are born for the Lampless Land ! 
'LlahHu! 
By the dread firman of Heaven's Deewan, 

All are born for the Dark Dark Land ■ 

The wasted moon has a marvellous look 

Amiddle of tlie starry hordes — 
The heavens, too, shine like a mystic book, 

All bright with burning words. 
The mists of the dawn begin to dislimn 

Zahara's castles of sand. 
Farewell! — farewell! Mine eyes feel dim — 

They turn to the Lampless Land. 
'LlahHu! 
My heart is weary — mine eyes are dim — 

I would rest in the Dark Dark Land! 



325 



JOHANN WILHELM LUDWIG GLEIM. 



One little hut is all my wealth terrene ; 
It stands upon a grass-rich green : 
Anigh it runs one happy little stream, 
As bright and silent as a dream. 

In front of it one fatherly old tree 
O'ershades this little hut for me, 
And shelters it from Winter's rain and storm. 
And Summer-suns, when over-warm. 

And from the tree one darling nightingale 
Pours forth so soft and sweet a wail, 
That most who pass and all who linger by 
Feel moved with love, they wiss not why. 

Dear little maiden with the flaxen hair ! 
Thou knowest me fond as thou art fair; 
I go: rude winds are whistling through the tree 
Wilt let me share my hut with thee ? 
28 



326 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



JOHANN MARTIN MILLER. 



Once there was a Gardener, 
"Who sang all day a dirge to his poor flowers : 

He often stooped and kissed 'em 

After thunder-showers : 
His nerves were delicate, though fresh air is deemed a 
hardener 

Of the human system ! 



Many a moon went over. 
And still his death-bell tale was told and tolled, 

His tears, like rain in Winter, 

Dribbling slow and cold. 
Void the song itself; I send it under cover 

To my Leipsic printer. 

" AVeary ! I am weary ! 
No rest from raking till I reach my goal! 

Here, like a tulip trampled. 

Lose I heart and soul ; 
Sure sucli a Death-in-Life as mine, — sq dark, so dreary, 

Must be unexampled ! 



327 



Hence, when droughty weather 
Has dulled the spirits of my violets, 

Medreanis I feel as though I 

Should have slight regrets 
Were they and I just then to droop and die together, 

Watched and wept by no eye. 

O, gazelle-eyed Princess ! 
Grand daughter of the Sultan of Cathay ! 

The Knave of Spades beseeches 

Thee by night and day : 
He dies to lay before thee samples of his quinces, 

Apricots and peaches ! 

Questionless Thy Highness 
Must wonder why I play the Absent Man ; 

Yet, if I pitch my lonely 

Tent in Frankistan, 
Attribute, O, Full Moon ! the blame, not to my shyness, 

But my planet only. 

But, enough ! I'll smother 
My groanings — and myself. Were I a Free 

Pwix-Baron or a Markgrave, 

I would fly to thee. 
But since — alas, my stars ! — I am neither one nor t'other, 

Here I'll dig my dark grave!" 



328 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 



AUGUST KUHN. 



There comes a Wanderer, worn and weary, 

To a cottage on the wold — 
"Motlier dear! — the night is dreary, 

And I am wet and cold, 
For I have been through rain and mire ; 

Mother dear, it blows a storm ! 

Let me in, I pray, to warm 
My fingers by the fire !" 

The door is opened — not by her — 

A little boy, wellnigh a child. 
Looks up into the Wanderer's face 

With a look so soft and mild! — 
He was like a messenger 

Sent from some pure sphere above, 
Unto Man's unhappy race, 

On an embassy of love ! 

"Come in, good man," he said; — "what dost 
Thou out on such a night as this ? 
O, I was dreaming wondrous things ! 
Medreamt that I had left and lost 



KUHN. 329 

My happy home imd all my bliss ; 

So I wept and could not rest, — 
Then came one with golden wings, 

And took me to my father's breast." 

The Wanderer's tears are flowing fast ; 

He doth not speak, he clasps his hands, 
But grief breaks forth in speech at last — 

"And, dearest child, where is thy father?" — • 
— " Amid a shadowy group he stands, 
And a moony light reposes 
On his face, but I would rather 
Be with him than pulHng roses!" 

"And thy mother, — what of her?" — 

" O ! often when the night is falling, 
When the wind moans through the fir, 
I can hear her dear voice calling 
From her far-off home to me : 
I think this cottage was too small 
For father, sister, her and all, 

And so they left it, all the three." 



—"Ha, what!— thy sister also?— Speak!"— 

— " Good man, I see thou knewest her, then. 
The bloom soon faded from her cheek, 

But now she dwells beyond the moon ; 
She could not stay, she told me, when 
Our mother and our father went ; 
Down in the vale, to-morrow noon, 
They'll point thee out her monument." 
28* 



330 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

— "And, tell me, darling child!— who sleeps 
Within the grave beside the stream, 
Where the sun can seldom beam, 
And the willow ever weeps ? 

The burial-stone rose blank and bare." — 
Here wept the child, and then he said, 
" They say my brother's wife is dead, 
Because she slumbers there. 

" My brother Walter went abroad, 
And never more came back, 

And then his wife grew pale and wan, 
She said her heart was on the rack. 
And Life was now a weary load ; 

And so she lingered, lingered on, 
Until a year or two ago. 
When Death released her from her woe." 

Thus far will Walter hear — no more: 

He presses once his brother's hand. 

Then, wandering forth amid the roar 

Of wind and rain he seeks the river, 
And, having one brief minute scanned. 
Silently, and calm of eye. 
The broad black mass of cloud on high, 
He plunges in the waves for ever! 



331 



CONRAD WETZEL. 



^0110. 

"When the roses blow 
Man looks out for brighter hours; 

When the roses glow 
Hope relights her lampless bowers. 
Much that seemed in Winter's gloom 

Dark with heavy woe, 
Wears a gladsome hue and bloom 

When the roses blow — 

When the roses blow — 
Wears a gladsome hue and bloom 

When the roses blow. 

When the roses blow 
Love, that slept, shall wake anew : 

Merrier blood shall flow 
Through the springald's veins of blue ; 
And if Sorrow wrang the heart 

Even that shall go ; — 
Pain and Mourning must depart 

When the roses blow — 

When the roses blow — 
Pain and Mourning must depart 

When. the roses blow. 



332 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

"When the roses blow 
Look to heaven, my fainting soul! 

There, in stainless sliovv, 
Spreads the veil that hides thy goal. 
Not while Winter breathes his blight 

Burst thy bonds below ! 
Let the Earth look proud and bright, 

Let the roses blow ! 

Let the roses blow ! 
O, let Earth look proud and bright ! 

Let the roses blow ! 



Ye have heard of the Dweller in Rudesheini Cellar! 

The Gnome of the Quartz (bottle) Mine ! 

An imp from the Mountains ! — in fine, 
A spirit ! — the fiery Spirit of Wine ! 

Whom hoops of iron round glass environ, 
Imprisoning and pressing him tight ; 
For he burns to burst forth in his might, 

And drink his fill of the upper light! 

Ah ! — how he resembles the rebel that trembles 
To break through this dungeoning breast, 
Strange struggler I Art master, or guest? 

Wilt rest thyself, or let me have rest? 



WETZEL. 333 

Thou too art prisoned, nor better seasoned 

To brook Life's iron-lioop rule — 

Grow, grow so, refractory fool ! 
Slack thy fire ! Still thy throbs ! Thou art yet but 
at school ! 

Are forty AVinters such faint imprinters 

Of age on a thing of thy mould? 

O shame that thou waxest not old ! 
"Why, saucy one, worlds are Time-controlled! 

But the worm is Man's brother — and one way or 
t'other 
Thy sport will be finally spoiled : — 
Though the lock on Life's Gate may be oiled, 

Death strikes but the surer where Time is foiled. 



Good Night, Good Night, my Lyre I 
A long, a last Good Night ! 

In ashes lies the fire 

That lent me Warmth and Light. 

With Love, Life too is fled ; 

My bosom's blood is cold ; 
My mind is all but dead ; 

My heart is growing old. 



^34 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

- Soon will my sad eyes close, 
O, Lyre, on Earth and Thee 1 
I go to woo Repose 
In God's Eternity ! 



COUNT EICHENDORFF. 



The Lieven mill-wheel ever 

Keeps turning round and roimd. 
Each morn 
I hear its ditty, and never 
Was born, 
Methinks, a sadder sound ! 

For she is gone from Lieven, 
The light-haired milleress, Jane 
Marie ; 
And the ring she gave one even 
Tome, 
Sprang yesternoon in twain ! 

From morrow unto morrow 
The mill-wheel turns all day, 
And I 
Turn too — away, in sorrow. 
And sigh. 
As I pen some plaintive lay. 



HERWEGH. 335 

Farewell, ye gay and bright hopes ! 
For me must years of dole 
Yet wheel. 
The vault of a long dark Night opes, 
I feel, 
To prison my mourning soul ! 

I hear the mill-wheel going. 
The water flowing down 
So cool : 
My tears are also flowing. 
Oh, fool. 
To trust those ringlets brown! 



GEORG HERWEGH. 



Cfec ^oit0 of faireiy. 

Yes! Freedom's war! — though the deadly strife 

Make earth one charnel bone-yard ! 
The last kiss now to the child and wife, 

And the first firm grasp of the poniard ! 
Blood soon shall run in rivers above 

The bright flowers we to-day tread ; 
We have all had more than enough of love, 

So now for a spell of Hatred ! 
"We have all had more than enough of love, 

So now for a spell of Hatred ! 



336 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

How long shall the hideous ogre, Power, 

Rear column of skulls on column? 
Oh, Justice! hasten thy judgment-hour, 

And open thy doomsday volume ! 
No more oiled speech ! — it is time the drove 

Of despots should hear their fate read — 
We have all had quite enough of love — 

Be our watchword henceforth Hatred ! 
"We have all had quite enough of love — 

Be our watchword henceforth Hatred ! 

Cold steel ! To that it must come at length — 

Nor quake to hear it spoken ! 
By the blows alone we strike in our strength 

Can the chains of the Avorld be broken ! 
Up, then! No more in city or grove 

Let Slavery and Dismay tread ! — 
We have all had more than enough of love, 

Let us now fall back upon Hatred ! 
We have all had more than enough of love, 

Let us now fall back upon Hatred I 

My friends ! the tremendous time at hand 

Will show itself truly in earnest! 
Do you the like! — and take your stand 

Where its aspect frowns the sternest ! 
Strive now as Tell and Korner strove ! 

Be your sharp swords early and late red ! 
You have all had more than enough of love — 

Test now the talisman, Hatred ! 
You have all had more than enough of love, 

Test now the talisman, Hatred ! 



VON ZEDLITZ. 337 



BARON VON ZEDLITZ. 



I. 

When midnight hour is come, 

The drummer forsakes his tomb, 

And marches, beating his pluintom-drum 
To and fro through the ghastly gloom. 

He plies the drumsticks twain, 

With fleshless fingers pale, 
And beats, and beats again and again, 

A long and dreary reveil ! 

Like the voice of abysmal waves 

Eesounds its unearthly tone, 
Till the dead old soldiers, long in their graves, 

Awaken through every zone. 

And the slain in the land of the Hun, 
And the frozen in the icy north. 

And those who under the burning sun 
Of Italy sleep, come forth. 

And they whose bones longwhile 
Lie bleaching in Syrian sands, 
29 



338 GERMAN ANTHOLOGY. 

And the slumberers under the reeds of the Nile, 
Arise, with arms in their hands. 



And at midnight, in his shroud, 
The trumpeter leaves his tomb, 

And blows a blast long, deep, and loud. 

As he rides through the gliastly gloom. 

And the yellow moonlight shines 
On the old Imperial Dragoons; 

And the Cuirassiers they form in lines, 
And the Carabineers in platoons. 

At a signal the ranks unsheathe 

Their weapons in rear and van ; 

But they scarcely appear to speak or breathe. 
And their features are sad and wan. 



And when midnight robes the sky, 
The Emperor leaves his tomb, 

And rides along, surrounded by 

His shadowy staff, through the gloom. 

A silver star so bright 

Is glittering on his breast ; 
In an uniform of blue and white 

And a grey camp-frock he is dressed. 

The moonbeams shine afar 

On the various marshalled groups. 



VON ZEDLITZ. 339 

As the Man with the glittering silver star 
Proceeds to review his troops. 

And the dead battalions all 

Go again through their exercise, 
Till the moon withdraws, and a gloomier pall 

Of blackness wraps the skies. 

Then around their chief once more 

The Generals and Marshals throng; 

And he whispers a word oft heard before 
In the ear of his aide-de-camp. 

In files the troops advance, 

And then are no longer seen. 
The challenging watchword given is " France !" 

The answer is " St. Helena!" 

And this is the Grand Review, 

Which at midnight on the wolds, 
If popular tales may pass for true, 

The buried Emperor holds. 



IIIISH ANTHOLOGY. 



gark liosalceit. 

(translated from the IRISH.) 



[This impassioned song, entitled, in the original, Boisin Duh, or The Black Lit- 
tle Rose, was written in the reign of Elizabeth by one of the poets of the celebrated 
Tirconnellian chieftain, Hugh the Red O'Donnell. It purports to be an allegorical 
address from Hugh to Ireland on the subject of his love and struggles for her, and 
his resolve to raise her again to the glorious position she held as a nation before 
the irruption of the Saxon and Norman spoilers. The true character and meaning 
of the figurative allusions with which it abounds, and to two only of which I need 
refer here — viz., the "Roman wine" and "Spanish ale" mentioned in the first 
stanza— the intelligent reader will, of course, find no difficulty in understanding.] 



O, MY Dark Rosaleen, 

Do not sigh, do not weep ! 
The priests are on tiie ocean green, 

They march ah.)ng the Deep. 
There's wine. . . .from the royal Pope, 

Upon the ocean green ; 
And Spanish ale shall give you hope. 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Shall glad your heart, shall give you hope, 
Shall give you health, and help, and hope, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 
29* 



342 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Over hills, and tlirough dales, 

Have I roamed for your sake ; 
All yesterday I sailed with sails 

On river and on lake. 
The Erne, . . .at its highest flood, 

I dashed across unseen, 
For there was lightning in my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
Oh ! there was lightning in my blood, 
Red lightning lightened through my blood, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

All day long, in unrest. 

To and fro, do I move. 
The very soul within my breast 

Is wasted for you, love ! 
The heart. .. .in my bosom faints 

To think of you, my Queen, 
My life of life, my saint of saints. 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
To hear your sweet and sad complaints, 
My life, my love, my saint of saints. 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Woe and pain, pain and woe. 
Are my lot, night and noon. 

To see your bright face clouded so, 
Like to the mournful moon. 

But yet .... will I rear your throne 
Again in golden sheen ; 



MANGAN. 343 

'Tis you shall reign, shall reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen! 
'Tis you shall have the golden throne, 
Tis you shall reign, and reign alone, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

Over dews, over sands, 

Will I flj^, for your weal : 
Your holy delicate white hands 

Shall girdle me with steel. 
At home in your emerald bowers, 

From morning's dawn till e'en. 
You'll pray for me, my flower of flowers. 

My Dark Rosaleen! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 
You'll think of me through Daylight's hours. 
My virgin flower, my flower of flow^ers, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

I could scale the blue air, 

I could plough the high hills. 
Oh, I could kneel all night in prayer. 

To heal your many ills ! 
And one . . . .beamy smile from you 

Would float like light between 
My toils and me, my own, my true. 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My fond Rosaleen ! 
Would give me life and soul anew, 
A second life, a soul anew, 

My dark Rosaleen ! 



344 IRISH ANTHOLOGV. 

! tlie Erne shall run red 

With rednndance of blood, 
The earth shall rock beneath our tread, 

And flames wrap hill and wood, 
And gun-peal, and slogan cry, 

Wake many a glen serene. 
Ere you shall fade, ere you shall die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 

My own Rosaleen ! 
The Judgment Hour must first be nigh, 
Ere you can fade, ere you can die, 

My Dark Rosaleen ! 



^^aite ^(rrec; or, llje CaptiMtg of iljc ^aels. 



A Translation of the Jacobite Song, called " Geibionn na-n-Gaoideil," written by 
Owen Roe O'Sullivan, a Kerry poet, who flourished about the middle of the 
last century. 



" Ag taisdiol na sleibte dam sealad am aonar. 



'TwAS by sunset ... I walked and wandered 
Over hill-sides. . .and over moors, 
With a many sighs and tears. 
Sunk in sadness, . . .1 darkly pondered 
All the wrongs our. . .lost land endures 
In these latter night-black years. 
"How," I mused, " has her worth departed! 
What a ruin. . .her fame is now ! 
We, once freest of the Free, 



MANGAN. 345 

We are trampled. . .and broken-hearted; 
Yea, even our Princes. . .themselves must bow 
Low before the vile Shane Bvvee!"* 



TlTigh a stream, in. . .a grassy hollow. 
Tired, at length, I. . .lay down to rest — 
There the birds and balmy air 
Bade new reveries. . .and cheerier follow, 
Waking newly. . .within my breast 
Thoughts that cheated my despair. 
Was I waking. . .or was I dreaming ? 
I glanced up, and. . .behold ! there shone 
Such a vision over me ! 
A young girl, bright. . .as Erin's beaming 
Guardian spirit — now sad and lone. 
Through the Spoiling of Shane Bwee! 

O, for pencil. . .to paint the golden 

Locks that waved in. . .luxuriant sheen 
To her feet of stilly light ! 
(Not the Fleece that. . .in ages olden 
Jason bore o'er. . .the ocean green 
Into Hellas, gleamed so bright.) 
And the eyebrows. . .thin-arched over 
Her mild eyes, and. . .more, even more 
Beautiful, methought, to see 
Than those rainbows. . .that wont to hover 
O'er our blue island-lakes of yore 
Ere the Spoiling by Shane Bwee ! 



1 Seagan Buidhe, Yellow John, a name applied first to the Prince of Orange, and 
afterwards to his adherents generally. 



346 IRISH ANTHOLOGV. 

"Bard!" she spake, "deem. • .not this unreal. 
I was niece of. . .a Pair whose peers 
None shall see on Earth agen — 
^ONGUS Con, and. . .the Dark O'Niall/ 
Rulers over. . .lern in years 

When her sons as yet were Men. 
Times have darkened ; . . . and now our holy 
Altars crumble, . . .and castles fall ; 
Our groans ring through Christendee. 
Still, despond not ! HE comes, though slowly, 
He, the Man, who shall disenthral 

The PROUD CAPTIVE of Shane Bwee!" 

Here she vanished ; . . .and I, in sorrow, 
Blent with joy, rose. . .and went my way 
Homeward over moor and hill. 
O, Great God ! Thou. . .from whom we borrow 
Life and strength, unto Thee I pray ! 
Thou, who swayest at Thy will 
Hearts and councils,. . .thralls, tyrants, freemen, 
Wake through Europe. . .the ancient soul, 
And on every shore and sea, 
From the Blackwater to the Dniemen, 
Freedom's Bell will. . .ere long time toll 
The deep death-knell of Shane Bwee ! 

1 Niall Dubh. 



MANGAN. 



347 



g^ Itameiilation 



THE DEATH OF SIR MAUEICE FITZGERALD, KNIGHT 
OF KERRY. I 

[An Abridged Translation from the Irish of Pierce Ferriter.] 

There was lifted up one voice of woe, 

One lament of more than mortal grief, 
Through the wide South to and fro, 

For a fallen Chief. 
In the dead of night that cry thrilled through me, 

I looked out upon the midnight air ; 
Mine own soul was all as gloomy, 

And I knelt in prayer. 

O'er Loch Gur, that night, once — twice — yea, 
thrice — 

Passed a wail of anguish for the Brave 
That half curdled into ice 

Its moon-mirroring wave. 
Then uprose a many-toned wild hymn in 

Choral swell from Ogra's dark ravine. 
And Mogeely's Phantom AVomen* 

Mourued the Geraldine ! 

Far on Carah Mona's emerald plains 

Shrieks and sighs were blended many hours, 

1 Who WRS killed in Flanders in 1642. 2 Banshees. 



348 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

And Fernioy in fitful strains 

Answered from her towers. 
Youghal, Keenalmeaky, Eenioldlly, 

Mourned in concert, and their piercing Tceen 
Woke to wondering life the stilly 

Glens of Inchiqueen. 

From Loughmoe to yellow Dunanore 

There was fear ; the traders of Tralee 
Gathered up their golden store, 

And prepared to flee ; 
For, in ship and hall, from night till morning 

Showed the first faint beamings of the snn, 
All the foreigners heard the warning 

Of the Dreaded One ! 

" This," they spake, " portendeth death to us^ 

If we fly not swiftly from our fate !" 
Self-conceited idiots ! thus 

Ravingly to prate ! 
iTot for base-born higgling Saxon trucksters 

Ring laments like these by shore and sea; 
ITot for churls with souls of hucksters 

Waileth our Banshee ! 

For the high Milesian race alone 

Ever flows the music of her woe ; 
For slain heir to bygone throne, 

And for Chief laid low ! 
Hark! .... Again, methinks, I hear her weeping 

Yonder! Is she near me now, as then? 
Or was but the night-wind sweeping 

Down the hollow glen ? 



MANGAN. 349 



(from the IRISH.) 



" A Phadruig Sairseal ! slan go dti tu 1' 



Paet I. 



The lyard apostrojyhises Sarsfield. 
Farewell, O Patrick Sarsfield ! May luck be on your 
path ! 
Your camp is broken up — your work is marred for 
years — 
But you go to kindle into flame the King of France's 
wrath, 

Though you leave sick Erin in tears. 
Ohone ! Ullagone!^ 

And invoices Messings oji him. 
May the white sun and moon. . .rain glory on your head, 

All hero as you are, and holy Man of God ! 
To you the Saxons owe. . .a many an hour of dread 
In the land you have often trod. 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

And yet more Messings. 
The Son of Mary guard you, and bless you to the end ! 
'Tis altered is the time since your legions were astir, 

1 This word is a corruption of the phrase OJc-gheoin, literally an evil noise, viz., 
a cry raised on the perpetration of some bad action. 

30 



350 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

When at Cullen you were hailed as the Conqueror and 
Friend, 

And you crossed the river near Birr. 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

He announces Ms design of 7'evisiting the N'orth. 
I'll journey to the N'orth, over mount, moor, and wave. 

'Twas there I first beheld, drawn up in file and line, 
The brilliant Irish hosts — they were bravest of the Brave, 
But, alas! they scorned to combine! 
Ohone! Ullagone! 

He recounts Ms reminiscences of the war. 
I saw the royal Boyne, when its billows flashed with 
blood. 
I fought at Grana Oge, where a thousand marcachs^ fell. 
On the dark empurpled field of Aughrim, too, I stood, 
On the plain by Shanbally's Well. 
Ohone! Ullagone! 

He gives Ms Ijenison to Limerick. 
To the heroes of Limerick, the City of the Fights, 

Be my best blessing borne on the wings of*the air! 
We had card-jylaying there o''er our camjJ-fires at night, 
And the Word of Life, too, and iirayer.^ 

And hestoics his malison on Londonderry . 
But, for you, Londonderry, may Plague smite and slay 
Your people! May Paiin. . .desolate you stone by 
stone ! 



1 Cavaliers, or hoisemen : the marcach of the middle ages, however, held the 
rank o{ a knight. 

2 I italicise those linas to invite attention to their peculiarly Irish character. 



MANGAN. 351 

Througli you a many a gallant youth lies coffinless to-day, 
With the winds for mourners alone ! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

He indulges in a 'burst of sorrow for a lost opportunity. 
I clomb the high hill on a fair summer noon, 

And saw the Saxon Muster, clad in armour blinding 
bright, 
Oh^ Rage withheld my hand^ or gunsnian and dragoon 
Should hane sup>2^ed with Satan that night! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

Part II. 

The bard mourns for the valiant Dead. 
How many a noble soldier, how many a cavalier. 

Careered along this road. . .seven fleeting weeks ago, 
AVith silver-hilted sword, with matchlock and with spear, 
Who now, tnovrone^ lieth low! 
Ohone! Ullagone! 

And pays a tribute to the valour of one of the Living. 
All hail to thee Ben Hedir — But ah, on thy brow 

I see a limping soldier, who battled and who bled 
Last year in the cause of the Stuart, though now 
The worthy is begging his bread! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

He deplores the loss of a friend. 
And Jerome, oh, Jerome!^ he perished in the strife — 
His head it was spiked on a halbert so high ; 

I One of King James's generals. 



352 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

His colours they were trampled. He had no chance of 
life 

If the Lord God himself stood hy} 

And of others^ dear friends also. 

But most, oh, ray woe ! I lament and lament 

For the ten valiant heroes who dwelt nigh the I^ore, 
And my three blessed brothers! They left me, and they 
went 

To the wars — and returned no more ! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

He reverts to tJie calamities of the Irish. 

On the Bridge of the Boyne was our first overthrow — 

By Slaney the next, for we battled witliout rest : 
The third was at Aughrim. Oh, Erin, thy woe 
Is a sword in my bleeding breast! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

Se describes in vivid terms tlie conflagration of the house 
at Ballytemple. 

O! the roof above our heads it was barbarously fired, 
While the black Orange guns. . .blazed and bellowed 
around, — 
And as volley followed volley. Colonel Mitchell enquired 
Whether Lucan'^ still stood his ground. 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 



1 ^^ Agw ni riahh faghnil cleanda aiije da hh/aideach .?« Dia «««."— This is one 
of those peculiarly powerful forms of expression, to which I find no parallel except 
in tha Arabic language. 

2 Lord Lucan, i. e. General Sarsfield. 



MANGAN. 353 

Finally^ however^ lie talccs a more hopeful view of the 
2:>rospects of his country. 

But O'Kelly still remains, to defy and to toil ; 

He has memories that Hell won't permit him to forget^ 
And a swonl that will make the blue blood flow like oil 
Upon many an Aughrini yet! 
Ohone ! Ullagone ! 

And concludes most cheeringly. 
And I never shall believe that my Fatherland can fall 
With the Burkes, and the Decies, and the son of Royal 
James, 
And Talbot the Captain, and Sarsfield above all, 
The beloved of damsels and dames. ^ 



ITHttient ahzi tijc %\\\m^ of tlje §ibkg of fat^ P^olaga.' 

[Translated from the original Irish of John O'Cullen, a native of Cork, who died 
in the year 1816.] 



" Oidhche dhamh go doilg, dubhach." 



I WANDERED forth at night alone. 
Along the dreary, shingly, billow-beaten shore ; 
Sadness that night was in my bosom's core. 

My soul and strength lay prone. 



1 " Agiis Padraig Sairseal, gvadh ban Eirionn !" 

a Literally "The House of [St.] Molaga," and now called Timoleague. 

30* 



354 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

The tliin wan moon, half overveiled 
By clouds, shed her funereal beams upon the scene; 
While in low tones, with many a pause between, 

The mournful night-wind wailed. 

Musing of Life, and Death, and Fate, 
I slowly paced along, heedless of aught around, 
Till on the hill, now, alas ! ruin-crowned, 

Lo ! the old Abbey-gate ! 

Dim in the pallid moonlight stood. 
Crumbling to slow decay, the remnant of that pile 
Within which dwelt so many saints erewhile 

In loving brotlierhood ! 

The memory of the men who slept 
Under those desolate walls — the solitude — the hour — 
Mine own lorn mood of mind — all joined to o'erpower 

My spirit — and I wept! 

In yonder Goshen once — I thought — 
Reigned Piety and Peace: Virtue and Truth were there; 
With Charity and the blessed spirit of Prayer 

AVas each fleet moment fraught ! 

There, unity of Walk and Will 
Blent hundreds into one : no jealousies or jars 
Troubled then* placid lives: their fortunate stars 

Had triumphed o'er all 111 ! 

There, knoUed each morn and even 
The bell for Matin and Vesper: Mass was said or sung. — 



MANGAN. 355 

Frotn the briglit silver censer as it swung, 
Rose balsainy clouds to Heaven. 

Through the round cloistered corridors 
A many a midnight hour, bareheaded and unshod, 
Walked the Grey Friars, beseeching from their God 

Peace for these western shores ! 

The weary pilgrim, bowed by Age, 
Oft found asylum there — found welcome, and found wine. 
Oft rested in its halls the Paladine, 

The Poet and the Sage ! 

Alas ! alas ! how dark the change ! 
Now round its mouldering walls, over its pillars low, 
The grass grows rank, the yellow gowans blow. 

Looking so sad and strange ! 

Unsightly stones choke up its wells ; 
The owl hoots all night long under the altar-stairs ; 
The fox and badger make their darksome lairs 

In its deserted cells ! 

Tempest and Time — the drifting sands — 
The lightnings and the rains — the seas that sweep around 
These hills in winter-nights, have awfully crowned 

The work of impious hands ! 

The sheltering, smooth-stoned, massive wall — • 
The noble figured roof — the glossy marble piers — 
The monumental shapes of elder years — 

Where are they ? Vanished all ! 



356 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Rite, incense, chant, prayer, mass, Lave ceased — 
All, all have ceased! Only the whitening bones half 

sunk 
In the earth now tell that ever here dwelt monk, 
Friar, acolyte, or priest. 

Oh ! woe, that Wrong should triumph thus ! 
Woe that the olden right, the rule and the renown 
Of the Pure-souled and Meek should thus go down 

Before the Tyrannous ! 

Where wert thou, Justice, in that hour? 
Where was thy smiting sword? What had those good 

men done. 
That thou shouldst tamely see them trampled on 

By brutal England's Power ? 

Alas, I rave ! . . .If Change is here, 
Is it not o'er the land ? Is it not too in me? 
Yes ! I am changed even more than what I see. 

Now is my last goal near ! 

My worn limbs fail — my blood moves cold — 
Dimness is on mine eyes — I have seen ray children die; 
They lie where I too in brief space shall lie — 

Under the grassy mould ! 



I turned away, as toward my grave, 
And, all my dark way homeward by tlie Atlantic's verge, 
Resounded in mine ears like to a dirge 

The roarinsr of the wave. 



MANQAN. 357 



It Jafoning of t^e Jag. 



[The following song, translated from the Irish of O'Dorau, refers to a singular 
atmospherical phenomenon said to be sometimes observed at Blackrock, near Dun- 
dalk, at daybreak, by the fishermen of that locality. Many similar narratives are 
to be met with in the poetry of almost all countries ; but O'Doran has endeavoured 
to give the legend a political colouring, of which, I apprehend, readers in general 
will hardly deem it susceptible.] 



*' Maidin chiuiii dham cliois bruacli na tragha." 



'TwAS a balmy summer morning, 
Warm and early, 

Such as only June bestows ; 
Everywhere the earth adorning 
Dews lay pearly 

In the lily-bell and rose. 
Up from each green-leafy bosk and hollow 

Kose the blackbird's pleasant lay. 
And the soft cuckoo was sure to follow. 

'Twas the Dawning of the Day ! 

Through the perfumed air the golden 
Bees flew round me ; 
Bright fish dazzled from the sea, 
'Till medrearat some fairy olden — 
World spell bound me 
In a trance of witcherie. 
Steeds pranced round anon with stateliest housings 
Bearing riders prankt in rich array, 



358 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Like flushed revellers after wine-carousings. 
'Twas the Dawning of the Day ! 

Then a strain of song was chanted, 
And the lightly- 
Floating sea-nymphs drew anear. 

Then again the shore seemed haunted 
By hosts brightly 
Clad, and wielding shield and spear ! 

Then came battle shouts — an onward rushing — 
Swords, and chariots, and a phantom fray. 

Then all vanished ; the warm skies were blushing 
In the Dawning of the Day! 

Cities girt with glorious gardens, 
Whose immortal 

habitants in robes of light 
Stood, methought, as angel-wardens 
Nigh each portal, 

Now arose to daze my sight. 
Eden spread around, revived and blooming; 

When . . . .lo ! as I gazed, all passed away — 
I saw but black rocks and billows looming 

In the dim chill Dawn of Day ! 



359 



f^e gream ol |oIjn Pac gonittll. 

(translated from the IRISH.) 

[John Mac Donnell, usually called Mac Donnell Clararjh, from liis family resi- 
dence, was a native of the county of Cork, and may be classed among the first of the 
purely Irish poets of the last century. He was born in 1691, and died in 1754. His 
poems are remarkable for their energy, their piety of toue, and the patriotic spirit 
they everywhere manifest. The following is one of them, and deserves to be re- 
garded as a very curious topographical "Jacobite relic."] 

I LAY in unrest — old thoughts of pain, 

That I struggled in vain to smother, 
Like midnight spectres haunted my brain — 

Dark fantasies chased each other ; 
"When, lo ! a Figure — who might it be? — 

A tall fair figure stood near me ! 
Who might it be ? An unreal Banshee? 

Or an angel sent to cheer me ? 

Though years have rolled since then, yet now 

My memory thrillingly lingers 
On her awful charms, her waxen brow, 

Her pale translucent fingers. 
Her eyes that mirrored a wonder-world, 

Her mien of unearthly mildness. 
And her waving raven tresses that curled 

To the ground in beautiful wildness. 

" Whence comest thou, Spirit V I asked, methougiii, 
" Thou art not one of the Banished ?" 

Alas, for me ! she answered nought. 
But rose aloft and evanished : 



360 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

And a radiance, like to a glory, beamed 
In the light she left behind her. 

Long time I wept, and at last medreamed 
I left my shieling to find her. 

And first I turned to the thunderous North, 

To Gruagach's mansion kingly ; 
Untouching the earth, I then sped forth 

To Inver-lough, and the sliingly 
And shining strand of the fishful Erne, 

And thence to Cruachan the golden. 
Of whose resplendent palace ye learn 

So many a marvel olden ! 

I saw the Mourna's billows flow — 

I passed the walls of Shenady. 
And stood in the hero-thronged Ardroe, 

Embosked amid greenwoods shady ; 
And visited that proud pile that stands 

Above the Boyne's broad waters, 
Where ^ngus dwells with his warrior-bands 

And the fairest of Ulster's daughters. 

To the halls of Mac Lir, to Creevroe's height, 

To Tara, the glory of Erin, 
To the fairy palace that glances bright 

On the peak of the blue Onocfeerin, 
I vainly hied. I went west and east — 

I travelled seaward and shoreward — 
But thus was I greeted at field and at feast — 

" Thy way lies onward and forward !" 

At last I reached, 1 wist not how, 
The royal towers of Ival, 



MANGAN. 361 

Which under the cliff's gigantic brow, 

Still rise without a rival ; 
And here Avere Thomond's chieftains all, 

With armour, and swords, and lances, 
And here sweet music filled the hall, 

And danasels charmed with dances. 

And here, at length, on a silvery throne. 

Half seated, half reclining, 
With forehead white as the marble stone, 

And garments so starrily shining, 
And features beyond the poet's pen — 

The sweetest, saddest features — 
Appeared before me once agen, 

That fairest of Living Creatures ! 

"Draw near, O mortal !" she said, with a sigh, 

" And hear my mournful story ! 
The Guardian-Spirit of Eein am I, 

But dimmed is mine ancient glory. 
My priests are banished, my warriors wear 

No longer Victory's garland ; 
And my Child,^ my Son, my beloved Heir, 

Is an exile in a far land !" 

I heard no more — I saw no more — 

The bands of slumber were broken ; 
And palace and hero, and river and shore, 

Had vanished, and left no token. 
Dissolved was the spell that had bound my will 

And my fancy thus for a season ; 
But a sorrow therefore hangs over me still, 

Despite of the teachings of Reason ! 

1 Charles Stuart. 

31 



362 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 



^l^t ^orrofos 0f litnisfail. 

(from the IRISH OF GEOFFREY KEATING.) 



" Om sgesl air ard-inhagh Fail ni chodlann oidliche." 

Through the long drear niglit I lie awake, for the sor- 
rows of Innisfail. 
My bleeding heart is ready to break ; I cannot but weep 

and wail. 
Oh, shame and grief and wonder ! her sons crouch lowly 
under 

The footstool of the paltriest foe 

That ever yet hath wrought them woe! 

How long, O Mother of Light and Song, how long will 

they fail to see 
That men must be bold^ no less than strong^ if they truly 

will to be free ? 
They sit but in silent sadness, while wrongs that should 
rouse them to madness, 

Wrongs that might wake the very Dead, 
Are piled on thy devoted head ! 

Thy castles, thy towers, thy palaces proud, thy stately 

mansions all. 
Are held by the knaves who crossed the waves to lord it 

in Brian's hall. 
Britannia, alas! is portress in Cobhthach's Golden For- 
tress, 

And Ulster's and Momonia's lands 
Are in the Robber-stranger's hands. 



MANGAN. 363 

The tribe of Eogan is worn with woe ; the O'Donnel 

reigns no more ; 
O'Neill's remains lie mouldering low, on Italy's far-off 

shore ; 
And the youths of the Pleasant Valley are scattered and 
cannot rally, 

While foreign Despotism unfurls 

Its flag 'mid hordes of base-born churls. 

The chieftains of Naas were valourous lords, but their 

valour was crushed by Craft — 
They fell beneath Envy's butcherly dagger, and Calumny's 

poisoned shaft. 
A few of their mighty legions yet languish in alien regions, 
But most of them, the Frank, the Free, 
"Were slain through Saxon perfidie ! 

Oh ! lived the Princes of Ainy's plains, and the heroes of 

green Domgole, 
And the chiefs of the Mauige, we still might hope to 

baffle our doom and dole. 
Well then might the dastards shiver who herd by the 
blue Bride river. 

But ah ! those great and glorious men 
Shall draw no glaive on Earth agen ! 

All-powerful God ! look down on the tribes who mourn 

throughout the land. 
And raise them some dehverer up, of a strong and smiting 

hand! 
Oh ! suffer them not to perish, the race Thou wert wont 
to cherish. 

But soon avenge their fathers' graves, 
And burst the bonds that keep them slaves ! 



364 lELSH ANTHOLOGY. 



[One of the most interesting archseological relics connected with Irish literatnre 
is unqnestionably the Testament of Cathaeir Mor, King of Ireland in the second 
century. It is a document whose general authenticity is established beyond ques- 
tion, though some doubt exists as to whether it was originally penned in the 
precise form in which it has come down to modern times. Mention of it is made 
by many writers on Irish history, and among others, by O'Flaherty in his Ogygia — 
(Part III., c. 59). But in the Leabhar na g-Ceart, or. The Book of Rights, now 
for the first time edited, with Translation and notes, by Mr. O'Oonovan, for the 
Celtic Society, we have it entire. The learned editor is ot opinion, that " it was 
drawn up in its present form some centuries after the death of Cathaeir Mor, when 
the race of his more illustrious sons had definite territories in Leinster." Be the 
fact as it may, the document is certainly one of those characteristic remains of an 
earlier age which most markedly bear the stamp of the peculiarities that distin- 
guish native Irish literary productions.] 

JJntroTiuctfon. 

Here is the Will of Cathaeir Mor. 

God rest him. 
Among his heirs he divided his store, 

His treasures and lands, 

And, first, laying hands 
On his son Ross Faly, he blessed him. 



"iWg Soberciflii 3Po^et, my nobleness. 

My wealth, my strength to curse and bless, 

My royal privilege of protection, 

I leave to the son of my best affection, 

Ross Faly, Ross of the Rings, 

Worthy descendant of Ireland's Kings ! 

To serve as memorials of succession 

For all who yet shall claim their possession 

In after-ages. 
Clement and noble and bold 

Is Ross, my son. 



MANGAN. 365 

Then, let him not hoard up silver and gold, 

But give unto all fair measure of wages. 
Victorious in battle he ever hath been ; 

He therefore shall yield the green 
And glorious plains of Tara to none, 
No, not to his brothers ! 
Yet these shall he aid 
When attacked or betrayed. 
This blessing of mine shall outlast the tomb, 
And live till the Day of Doom, 
Telling and telling daily. 
And a prosperous man beyond all others 
Shall prove Ross Faly!" 

Then he gave him ten shields, and ten rings, and ten swords, 
And ten drinking-liorns ; and he spake him those words. 
"Brightly shall shine the glory, 
O Ross, of thy sons and heirs, 
IsTever shall flourish in story 
Such heroes as they and theirs!" 

Then, laying his royal hand on the head 

Of his good son, Daery, he blessed him and said : — 

" IWg ITalouv, ray daring, my martial courage, 
My skill in the field I leave to Darry, 
That he be a guiding Torch and starry 

Light and Lamp to the hosts of our age. 

A hero to sway, to lead and command, 

Shall be every son of his tribes in the land ! 

O, Darry, with boldness and power 
Sit thou on the frontier of Tuath Lann, 

And ravage the lands of Deas Ghower.' 

1 Tuath Laighean, viz. North Leinster. 
a De<xs Ghubhair, viz. South Leiiister. 

31* 



866 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Accept no gifts for thy protection 

From woman or man. 
So shall Heaven assuredly bless 
Thy many daughters with fruitfulness, 
And none shall stand above thee, — 
For I, thy sire, who love thee 
"With deep and warm affection, 
I prophesy unto thee all success 
Over the green battalions 
Of the redoubtable Gallons."* 

And he gave him, thereon, as memorials and meeds, 
Eight bondsmen, eight handmaids, eight cups, and eight 
steeds. 

The noble Monarch of Erin's men 

Spake thus to the young Prince Brassal, then: — 

"iftts Sea, with all its wealth of streams, 
I leave to my sweetly-speaking Brassal, 
To serve and to succour him as a vassal — 

And the lands whereon the bright sun beams 
Around the waves of Amergiu's Bay " 
As parcelled out in the ancient day : 
By free men through a long, long time 

Shall this thy heritage be enjoyed — 

But the chieftaincy shall at last be destroyed, 
Because of a Prince's crime. 
And though others again shall regain it, 

Yet Heaven shall not bless it, 

For Power shall oppress it, 
And Weakness and Baseness shall stain it!" 

1 Gailians, an ancient designation, according to O'Donovan, of the Laighnigh or 
Leinstermen. 

2 Inhhear Aimherghin, originally the estuary of the Blackwater, and so called 
from Aimherghin, one of the sons of Milesius, to whom it was apportioned by lot. 



MANGAN. 36*7 

And he gave him six ships, and six steeds, and six shields, 

Six mantles and six coats of steel — 
And the six royal oxen that wrought in his fields. 

These gave he to Brassal the Prince for his weal. 

Then to Oatach he spake : — 

** Ms iJortier laiitis 
Thou, Ox^TACH, shalt take, 

But ere long they shall pass from thy hands, 
And by thee shall none 
Be ever begotten, daughter or son !" 

E.0 JFeavflljus 3luascaii spake he thus : — 
*'Thou FEARGHUS, also, art one of us, 
But over-simple in all thy ways, 
And babblest much of thy childish days. 
For thee have I nought, but if lands may be bought 
Or won hereafter by sword or lance, 

Of those, perchance, 
I may leave thee a part, 
All simple babbler and boy as thou art !" 

Young Fearghus, therefore, was left bereaven. 
And thus the Monarch spake to Oreeven : — 

** Eo in» bo^fsl) ?^ero, my gentle Creeven, 

Who lovetli in Summer, at morn and even, 
To snare the songful birds of the field. 
But shunneth to look on spear and shield, 

I have little to give of all that I share. 

His fame shall fail, his battles be rare. 

And of all the Kings that shall wear his crown 

But one alone sliall win renown."^ 

1 The text adds: ?. e. Colant niac Criomhthaiiin ; but O' Donovan conjectures, 
that this is h mere scholitiiu of some scribe. 



368 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

And he gave him six cloaks, and six cups, and seven 

steeds, 
And six harnessed oxen, all fresh from the meads. 

But on Aenghns Nic, a younger child, 

Begotten in crime and born in wo, 
The father frowned, as on one defiled, 

And with louring brow he spake him S'"»* - 

"2ro Xfc, my son, that base-born youth, 
Shall nought be given of land or gold ; 
He may be great and good and bold. 
But his birth is an agony all untold, 
"Which gnaweth him like a serpent's tooth. 
I am no donor 

To him or his race — 

His birth was dishonor; 

His hfe is disgrace ! " 

And thus he spake to Eochy Timin, 
Deeming him fit but to herd with women :— 

'•JMl^eafe son ot mfne, thou shalt not gain 
"Waste or water, valley or plain. 
From thee shall none descend save cravens, 
Sons of sluggish sires and mothers, 
"Who shall live and die. 
But give no corpses to the ravens ! 

Mine ill thought and mine evil eye^ 
On thee beyond thy brothers 
Shall ever, ever lie!" 

And to Oiholl Cadach his words were those: — 
" © ©tlioll, great in coming years 

1 In the original— '^ Mo faindi, mo ea.sca()i«,"— literally, "My weakness, my 
curse." 



MAXGAX. 369 

Shall be thy fame among friends and foes 
As the first of Brugliaidhs^ and Hospitallers ! 
But neither noble nor warlike 

Shall show thy renownless dwelling ; 
Nevertheless 

Thou slialt dazzle at chess, 
Therein supremely excelling 
And shining like somewhat starlike!" 

And his chess-board, therefore, and chessmen eke, 
He gave to Oilioll Oadach the Meek. 

Now Fiacha, — youngest son was he, — 

Stood up by the bed... of his father, who said, 
The while, caressing 
Him tenderly : — 
" My son ! I have only for thee my blessing. 
And nought beside — 
Hadst best abide 
"With thy brothers a time, as thine years are green." 

Then Fiacha wept, with a sorrowful mien ; 

So, Cathaeir spake, to encourage him, gailj^, 
With cheerful speech — 
" Abide one month with thy brethren each, 
And seven years long with my son, Koss Faly. 
Do this, and thy sire, in sincerity, 
Prophesies unto thee fame and prosperity." 

And further he spake, as one inspired : — 
"A Chieftain flourishing, feared, and admired, 

Shall Fiacha prove ! 
The gifted Man from the boiling Berve" 

1 Public victuallers. 

2 Bearbha, viz., the river Barrow. 



370 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Him shall his brothers' clansmen serve. 
His forts shall be Aillin and proud Almain, 

He shall reign in Carman and Allen ;^ 
The highest renown shall his palaces gain 
When others have crumbled and fallen. 
His power shall broaden and lengthen, 

And never know damage or loss; 
The impregnable Naas he shall strengthen, 
And govern in Ailbhe and Arriged Ross. 
Yes ! O Fiacha, Foe of strangers. 
This shall be tliy lot ! 
And thou shalt pilot 
Ladhrann and Leeven" with steady and even 
Heart and arm through storm and dangers ! 
Overthrown by thy mighty hand 

Shall the Lords of Tara lie. 
And Taillte's^ fair, the first in the land, 
Thou, son, shalt magnify ; 
And many a country thou yet shalt bring 
To own thy rule as Ceann and King. 
The blessing I give thee shall rest 
■• On thee and thy seed 

While Time shall endure. 
Thou grandson of Fiacha the Blest ! 
It is barely thy meed. 

For thy soul is childlike and pure!" 

Here ends the Will of Cathaeir Mor, who was King of Ireland. 

1 The localities mentioned here were chiefly residences of the ancient kings of 
Leinster. 

2 Forts upon the eastern coasts of Ireland. 

3 TailUe, now Teltown, a village between Kells and Navan, in Meath. 



371 



^urg mxh gaiborgilla. 

(from the IRISH.) 

[Ruaghii, Prince of Oriel, after an absence of two days and nights from his own 
territories on a hunting expedition, suddenly recollects that he has forgotten his 
wedding day. He despairs of forgiveness from the bride whom he appears to have 
slighted, Dearbhorgilla, daughter of Prince Cairtre, but would scorn her too much 
to wed her if she rould forgive him. He accordingly prepares for battle with her 
and her father, but unfortunately intrusts the command of his forces to one of his 
most aged C'canim or Captains. He is probably incited to the selection of this 
chieftain by a wisli to avoid provoking hostilities, which, however, if they occur, 
he will meet by defiance and conflict ; but his choice proves to have been a fatal 
one. His Cennn is seized with a strange feeling of fear in the midst of the fray ; 
and this, being communicated to his troops, enlarges into a panic, and Ruaghri's 
followers are all slaughtered. Ruaghri himself arrives ne.xt day on the battle- 
plain, and, perceiving the result of the contest, stabs himself to the heart. Dearb- 
horgilla witnesses this sad catastrophe from a distance, and, rushing towards the 
scene of it, clasps her lover in her arms ; but her stern father, following, tears her 
away from the bleeding corpse, and has her cast in his wrath, it is supposed, into 
one of the dungeons of his castle. But of her fate nothing certain is known after- 
wards ; though, from subsequent circumstances, it is conjectured that she perished, 
the victim of her lover's thoughtlessness and her father's tyranny.] 

Know ye the tale of the Prince of Oriel, 

Of Rury, last of his line of kings ? 
I pen it here as a sad memorial 

Of how much woe reckless folly brings. 

Of a time that Rury rode woodwards, clothed 
In silk and gold on a hunting chase, 

He thought like thunder^ on his betrothed, 
And with clinched hand he smote his face. 

" Foreer ! ^ Mohhron I ^ Pri ncess Darvorgilla ! 
Forgive she will not a slight like this ; 

1 H-saoil se mar teoirneach ; he thought like thunder ; i. «., the thought came 
on him like a thunderbolt. 

2 Alas ! 

3 Pronounced Mo vrone, and means My grief 1 



372 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

But could she, dared she, I shouhl he still a 

Base wretch to wed her for heaven's hest bliss ! 

'''• Foreer ! Foreer ! Princess Darvorgilla! 

She has four hundred young bowmen bold ; 
But I — I love her, and would not spill a 

Drop of their blood for ten torques^ of gold. 

'' Still, woe to all who provoke to slaughter ! 

I count as nought, weighed with fame like mine, 
The birth and beauty of Oairtre's daughter; 

So, judge the sword between line and line ! 

"Thou, therefore, Calbhach,^ go call a muster, 

And wind the bugle by fort and dun ! 
"When stain shall tarnish our house's lustre, 

Then sets in darkness the noon-day sun!" 

But Calbhach answered, " Light need to do so ! 

Behold the noblest of heroes here ! 
"What foe confronts us, I reck not whoso, 

Shall fly before us like hunted deer!" 

Spake Rury then — "Calbliach, as thou wiliest! 

But see, old man, there be brief delay — 
For this chill parle is of all things chillest. 

And my fleet courser must now away ! 

" Yet, though thou march with thy legions townwards, 
"Well armed for ambush or treacherous fray, 



1 Koyal ueck-ornaments. 

2 Calbhach,— proper name of a man,— derived from C tlb,— baldpated. 



MANGAN. 3*73 

Still show they point their bare weapons downwards, 
As those of warriors averse to slay !" 

Now, when the clansmen were armed and mounted, 

The aged Oalbhach gave way to fears ; 
For, foot and horseman, they barely counted 

A hundred cross-bows and forty spears. 

And thus exclaimed he, "My soul is shaken ! 

We die the death, not of men, but slaves; 
"We sleep the sleep from which none awaken. 

And scorn shall point at our tombless graves !" 

Then out spake Tergal — " A cliarge so weighty 
As this, O Rury, thou shouldst not throw 

On a drivelling dotard of eight-and-eighty, 
"Whose arm is nerveless for spear or bow !" 

But Rury answered, " Away ! To-morrow 

Myself will stand in Traghvally' town ; 
But, come what may come, this day I borrow 

To hunt through Glafna the brown deer down !" 

So, through the night, unto gray Traghvally, 

The feeble Ceann led his hosts along ; 
But, faint and heart-sore, they could not rally, 

So deeply Rury had wrought them wrong. 

IsTow, when the Princess beheld advancing 
Her lover's troops with their arms reversed, 

In lieu of broadswords and chargers prancing. 
She felt her heart's hopes were dead and hearsed. 

1 Dundalk. 

32 



374 iniSH ANTHOLOGY. 

And on her knees to her ireful father 
She prayed, " O father, let this pass by; 

War not against the brave Rury ! Rather 
Pierce this fond bosom and let me die!" 

But Cairtre rose in volcanic fury, 

And so he spake — " By the might of God, 

I hold no terms with this craven Rury 
Till he or I lie below the sod ! 

" Thou shameless child ! Thou, alike unworthy 
Of him, thy father, who speaks thee thus, 

And her, my Mhearb,^ who in sorrow bore thee; 
Wilt thou dishonour thyself and us ? 

" Behold ! I march with my serried bowmen — 
Four hundred thine and a thousand mine; 

I march to crush these degraded foemen, 
Who gorge the ravens ere day decline!" 

Meet now both armies in mortal struggle, 
The spears are shivered, the javelins fly ; 

But, what strange terror, what mental juggle, 
Be those that speak out of Calbhach's eye? 

It is — it must be, some spell Satanic, 
That masters him and his gallant host. 

Woe, woe the day ! An inglorious panic 
Overpowers the legions — and all is lost ! 

Woe, woe that day, and that hour of carnage ! 
Too well they witness to Fergal's truth ! 



MANGAN. 31 5 

Too well in bloodiest appeal they warn Age 
Not lightly thus to match swords with Youth! 

When Rury reached, in the red of morning, 
The battle-ground, it was he who felt 

The dreadful weight of this ghastly warning, 
And what a blow had o'ernight been dealt ! 

So, glancing round him, and sadly groaning, 
He pierced his breast with his noble blade ; 

Thus all too mournfully mis-atoning 
For that black ruin his word had made. 

But hear ye further ! When Cairtre's daughter 
Saw what a fate had o'erta'en her Brave, 

Her eyes became as twin founts of water, 
Her heart again as a darker grave. 

Clasp now thy lover, unhappy maiden ! 

But, see ! thy sire tears thine arms away ! 
And in a dungeon, all anguish laden, 

Shalt thou be cast ere the shut of day. 

But what shall be in the sad years coming 
Thy doom ? I know not, but guess too well 

That sunlight never shall trace thee roaming 
A yond the gloom of thy sunken cell ! 

This is the tale of the Prince of Oriel 
And Darvorgilla, both sprung of Kings ! 

I trace it here as a dark memorial 

Of how much woe thoughtless folly brings. 



376 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 



(from the IRISH.) 

King Dathy assembled liis Druids and Sages, 
And thus be spake tbem — "Druids and Sages! 

WhatofKingDatby? 
What is revealed in Destiny's pages 

Of him or his ? Hath he 
Aught for the Future to dread or to dree ? 
Good to rejoice in, or Evil to flee? 

Is he a foe of the Gall — 
Fitted to conquer or fated to fall ?" 

And Beirdra, the Druid, made answer as thus — 

A priest of a hundred years was he — 
"Dathy ! thy fate is not liidden from us! 

Hear it through me! 
Thou shalt work thine own will ! 

Thou shalt slay — thou shalt prey — 
And be Conqueror still ! 

Thee the Earth shall not harm ! 

Thee we charter and charm 

From all evil and ill ; 

Thee the laurel shall crown ! 

Thee the wave shall not drown ! 

Thee the chain shall not bind ! 

Thee the spear shall not find! 

Thee the sword sliall not slay ! 

Thee the shaft shall not pierce ! 
Thou, therefore, be fearless and fierce, 



MANGAN. 



S11 



And sail with thy warriors away 
To the lands of the Gall, 
There to slaughter and sway, 
And be Victor o'er all !" 

So Dathy he sailed away, away, 

Over the deep resounding sea ; 
Sailed with his hosts in armour grey 

Over the deep resounding sea. 
Many a night and many a day. 

And many an islet conquered he — 
He and his hosts in armour grey. 

And the billow drowned him not. 

And a fetter bound him not, 

And the blue spear found him not, 

And the red sword slew him not. 

And the swift shaft knew him not, 

And the foe o'erthrew him not. 
Till, one bright morn, at the base 

Of the Alps, in rich Ausonia's regions, 
His men stood marshalled face to face 

With the mighty Roman legions. 
IToble foes ! 
Christian and Heathen stood there among those, 
Eesolute all to overcome, 
Or die for the Eagles of Ancient Eome ! 

When, behold ! from a temple anear 
Came forth an aged priest-like man, 

Of a countenance meek and clear. 
Who, turning to Eire's Oeann,^ 

1 Ceann,— Head, King. 
32* 



3*78 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Spake him as thus — " King Dathy ! hear! 

Thee would 1 warn ! 
Retreat! retire! Repent in time 

The invader's crime. 
Or better for thee thou hadst never been born!" 
But Dathy replied, " False Nazarene ! 

Dost thou, then, menace Dathy, thou ? 

And dreamest thou that he will bow 
To one unknown, to one so mean, 
So powerless as a priest must be ? 
He scorns alike thy threats and thee ! 
On! on, my men, to victory !" 

And, with loud shouts for Eire's King, 

The Irish rush to meet the foe, 
And falchions clash and bucklers ring, — 

When, lo ! 
Lo ! a mighty earthquake's shock! 
And the cleft plains reel and rock; 
Clouds of darkness pall the skies ; 

Thunder crashes, 

Lightning flashes. 
And in an instant Dathy lies 
On the earth a mass of blackened ashes I 
Then, mournfully and dolefully, 
The Irish warriors sailed away 
Over the deep resounding sea. 
Till, wearily and mournfully, 
They anchored in Eblana's Bay. 
Thus the Seanachies' and Sages 
Tell this tale of long-gone ages. 

1 Seanachies,— historians. 



MANGAN. 379 



^riita gilbfrib's Itinxrarg tljrouglj Irtlanb. 

(from the IRISH.) 

[Amongst the Anglo-Saxon students resorting to Ireland was Prince Aldfrid, 
afterwards King of the Northumbrian Saxons. His having been educated there 
about the year 684 is corroborated by venerable Bede in his " Life of St. Cuthbert." 
The original poem, of which this is a translation, attributed to Aldfrid, is still ex- 
taut in the Irish language.] 

I FOUND in Innisfail the fair, 

In Ireland, while in exile there, 

Women of worth, both grave and gay men, 

Many clerics and many laymen. 

I travelled its fruitful provinces round, 
And in every one of the five' I found, 
Ahke in church and in palace hall. 
Abundant apparel, and food for all. 

Gold and silver I found, and money. 
Plenty of wheat and plenty of honey ; 
I found God's people rich in pity. 
Found many a feast and many a city. 

I also found in Armagh, the splendid. 
Meekness, wisdom, and prudence blended, 
Fasting, as Christ hath recommended. 
And noble councillors untranscended. 

I found in each great church moreo'er. 
Whether on island or on shore. 

1 The two Meaths then formed a disticct province. 



380 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Piety, learning, fond affection, 
Holy welcome and kind protection. 

I found the good lay monks and brothers 
Ever beseeching help for others. 
And in their keeping the holy word 
Pure as it came from Jesus the Lord. 

I found in Munster unfettered of any, 
Kings, and queens, and poets a many — 
Poets well skilled in music and measure, 
Prosperous doings, mirth and pleasure. 

I found in Connaught the just, redundance 
Of riches, milk in lavish abundance ; 
Hospitality, vigor, fame. 
In Cruachan's' land of heroic name. 

I found in the country of ConnalP the glorious, 
Bravest heroes, ever victorious ; 
Fair-complexioned men and warlike, 
Ireland's lights, the high, the starlike ! 

I found in Ulster, from hill to glen. 
Hardy warriors, resolute men ; 
Beauty that bloomed when youth was gone. 
And strength transmitted from sire to son. 

I found in the noble district of Boyle 
{MS. here illegible.) 



1 Cruachan, or Croghan, was the name of the royal palace of Connaught. 
a Tyrconnell, the present Donegal. 



MANGAN. 881 

Brehon's,^ Erenachs, weapons bright, 
And horsemen bold and sudden in fight. 

I found in Leinster the smooth and sleek, 
From Dublin to Slewmargy's'^ peak ; 
Flourisliing pastures, valor, health, 
Long-living worthies, commerce, wealth. 

I found, besides, from Ara to Glea, 
In the broad rich country of Ossorie, 
Sweet fruits, good laws for all and each, 
Great chess-players, men of truthful speech. 

I found in Meath's fair principality. 
Virtue, vigor, and hospitality ; 
Candor, joyfulness, bravery, purity, 
Ireland's bulwark and security. 

I found strict morals in age and youth, 
I found historians recording truth ; 
The things I sing of in verse unsmooth, 
I found them all — I have written sooth.^ 



1 Brehon,— a law judge ; Erenach,— a ruler, an archdeacon. 

2 Slewmargy, a mountain in the Queen's county, near the river Barrow. 

3 "Bede assures us that the Irish were a harmless and friendly people. To 
them many of the Angles had been accustomed to resort in search of knowledge, 
and on all occasions had been received kindly and supported gratuitously, Ald- 
frid lived in spontaneous exile among the Scots (Irish) through his desire of knowl- 
edge, and was called to the throne of Northurabria after the decease of his brother 
Egfrid in 685." — Lingard's England, vol. i. chap. 3. 



382 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 



J^iitKora. 

(FROM THE IRISH.) 

[This poem is ascribed to the celebrated poet MacLiag, the secretary of the re- 
nowned monarch Brian Boru, who, as is well known, fell at the battle of Clon- 
tat C, in 1014, and the subject of it is a lamentation for the fallen condition of Kin- 
kora, the palace of that monarch, consequent on his death. The decease of Mac- 
Liag is recorded in the " Annals of the Four Masters," as having taken place in 
1015. A great number of his poems are still in existence, but none of them have 
obtained a popularity so widely extended as his " Lament." The palace of Kin- 
kora, which was situated on the banks of the Shannon, near Killaloe, is now a 
heap of ruins.] 

O, WHERE, Kinkora! is Brian the Great? 

And where is the beauty that once was thine? 
O, where are tlie princes and nobles that sate 

At the feast in thy halls, and drank the red wine ! 
Where, O Kinkora ? 

0, where, Kinkora ! are thy valourous lords ? 

O, whither, thou Hospitable! are they gone? 
O, where are the Dalcassians of the golden swords?* 

And where are the warriors Brian led on? 

Where, O Kinkora? 

And where is Morrogh, the descendant of kings ; 

The defeater of a hundred — the daringly brave — 
Who set but slight store by jewels and rings — 

Who swam down the torrent and laughed at its wave? 
Where, O Kinkora? 

And where is Donogh, King Brian's worthy son? 
And where is Oonaing, the beautiful chief? 

1 Colg nor, or the swords of Gold, ?. e. of the Gohl-hiUed Swords. 



MANGAN. 383 

And Kian and Core ? Alas ! they are gone — 

They have left me this night alone with my grief! 
Left me, Kinkora! 

And where are the chiefs with whom Brian went forth, 
The never- vanquished sons of Erin the brave. 

The great King of Onaght, renowned for his worth, 
And the hosts of Baskinn from the western wave? 
Where, O Kinkora? 

O, where is Duvlann of the Swift-footed Steeds ? 

And where is Kian, who was son of Molloy ? 
And where is King Lonergan, the fame of whose deeds 

In the red battle-field no time can destroy? 

Where, O Kinkora? 

And where is that youth of majestic height. 

The faith-keeping Prince of the Scots? Even he, 

As wide as his fame was, as great as was his might, 
Was tributary, O Kinkora, to thee ! 

Thee, Kinkora ! 

They are gone, those heroes of royal birth. 

Who plundered no churches, and broke no trust ; 

'Tis weary for me to be living on earth 

When they, O Kinkora, lie low in the dust! 
Low, O Kinkora! 

O, never again will Princes appear. 

To rival the Dalcassians* of the Cleaving Swords ; 

1 The Dalcassians were Brian's body guard. 



384 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

I can never dream of meeting afar or anear, 
In the east or the west, such heroes and lords I 
Never, Kinkora! 

O, dear are the images my memory calls up 
Of Brian Boru ! — ^how he never would miss 

To give me at the banquet, the first bright cup ! 
Ah ! why did he heap on me honour like this ? 
Why, O Kinkora ? 

I am Mac-Liag, and my home is on the Lake : 
Thither often, to that palace whose beauty is fled, 

Came Brian, to ask me, and I went for his sake, 
O, my grief! that I should live, and Brian be dead! 
Dead, O Kinkora! 



ITamenf for llje |prhtccs of OTgronc aitb STgrcoititcIl. 

(from the IRISH.) 

[This is an Elegy on the death of the princes of TjTone and Tyrconnell, who 
having fled with others from Ireland in the year 1607, and afterwards dying at 
Rome, were interred on St. Peter's Hill, in one grave. The poem is the production 
of O'Donnell's bard, Owen Roe Mac an Bhaird, or Ward, who accompanied the 
family in their exile, and is addressed to Nuala, O'Donnell's sister, who was also 
one of the fugitives. As the circumstances connected with the flight of the North- 
ern Earls, which led to the subsequent confiscation of the six Ulster Counties by 
James I., may not be immediately in the recollection of many of our readers, it 
may be proper briefly to state, that it was caused by the discovery of a letter di- 
rected to Sir William Ussher, Clerk of the Council, dropped in the Council-cham- 
ber on the 7th of May, and which accused the Northern chieftains generally of a 
conspiracy to overthrow the government. The charge is now totally disbelieved. 
As an illustration of the poem, and as an interesting piece of hitherto unpublished 
literature in itself, we extract the account of the flight as recorded in the Annals 
of the Four Masters, and translated by Mr. O'Donovan : " Maguire (Cuconnanght) 



MANGAN. 385 



and Donogh, son of Mahon, who was son of the Bishop O'Brien, sailed in a ship to 
Ireland, and put in at the harbor of Swilly, They then took with them from Ire- 
land the Earl O'Neill (Hugh, son of Fedoragh) and the Earl O'Donnell (Rory, son 
of Hugh, who was son of Magnus) and many others of the nobles of the province 
of Ulster. These are the persons who went with O'Neill, namely, his Countess, 
Catherina, daughter of Magennis, and her three sons ; Hugh, the Baron, John, and 
Brian ; Art Oge, son of Cormiic, who was son of the Baron ; Ferdoragh, son of Con, 
who was son of O'Neill : Hugh Oge, son of Brian, who was son of Art O'Neill ; and 
many others of his most intimate friends. These were they who went with the 
Earl O'Donnell, namely Caller, his brother, with his sister Nuala ; Hugh, the 
Earl's child, wanting three weeks of being one year old ; Eose, daughter of O'Do- 
herty and wife of Caffer, with her son Hugh, aged two years and three months ; 
his (Rory's) brother's son Donnell Oge, son of Donnel, Naghtan, son of Calvach, 
who was son of Donogh Cairbreach O'Donnell, and many others of his intimate 
friends. They embarked on the festival of the Holy Cross in autumn. This was a 
distinguished company ; and it is certain that the sea has not borne and the wind 
has not wafted in modern times a number of persons in one ship more eminent, il- 
lustrious, or noble in point of genealogy, heroic deeds, valour, feats of arms, and 
brave achievements than they. Would that God had but permitted them to remain 
in their patrimonial inheritances until the children should arrive at the age of man- 
hood I Woe to the heart that meditated, woe to the mind that conceived, woe to 
the council that recommended the project of this expedition, without knowing 
whether they should, to the end of their lives, be able to return to their native prin- 
cipalities or patrimonies." The Earl of Tyrone was the illustrious Hugh O'Neill, 
the Irish leader In the wars against Elizabeth.] 



O Woman of the Piercing Wail, 

Who mournest o'er yon mound of clay 
With sigh and groan, 
Would God thou wert among the Gael ! 
Thou wouldst not then from day to day 
Weep thus alone. 
'Twere long before, around a grave 
In green Tirconuell, one could find 
This loneliness ; 
Near where Beann-Boirche's banners wave 
Such grief as thine could ne'er have pined 
Oorapanionless. 

Beside the wave, in Donegal, 

In Antrim's glens, or fair Dromore, 
Or Killillee, 
Or where the sunny waters fall, 
33 



386 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

At Assaroe, near Erna's shore, 
This could not be. 
On Derry's plains — in rich Drumclieff — 
Throughont Armagh the Great, renowned 
In olden years, 
No day could pass but woman's grief 
"Would rain upon the burial-ground 
Fresh floods of tears ! 

O, no ! — from Shannon, Boyne, and Suir, 
From high Dunluce's castle-walls, 
From Lissadill, 
Would flock alike both rich and poor. 

One wail would rise from Cruachan's halls 
To Tara'3 hill ; 
And some would come from Barrow-side, 
And many a maid would leave her home 
On Leitrim's plains. 
And by melodious Banna's tide, 

And by the Mourne and Erne, to come 
And swell thy strains ! 

O, horses' hoofs would trample down 
The Mount whereon the martyr-saint* 
Was crucified. 
From glen and hill, from plain and town, 
One loud lament, one thrilling plaint, 
Would echo wide. 
There would not soon be found, I ween, 



1 St. Peter. This passage is not exactly a blunder, though at first it may seem 
one : the poet supposes the grave itself transferred to Ireland, and he naturally 
includes in the transference the whole of the immediate locality around th« 
grave, — Tr. 



MANGAN. 38*7 

One foot of ground among those bands 
For museful thought, 
So many shriekers of the heen^ 

Would cry aloud, and clap their hands, 
All woe-distraught ! 

Two princes of the line of Conn 
Sleep in their cells of clay beside 
O'Donnell Koe : 
Three royal youths, alas ! are gone. 
Who lived for Erin's weal, but died 
For Erin's woe ! 
Ah ! could the men of Ireland read 
The names these noteless burial stones 
Display to view. 
Their wounded hearts afresh would bleed. 
Their tears gush forth again, their groans 
Kesound anew ! 

The youths whose relics moulder here 

Were sprung from Hugh, high Prince and Lord 
Of Aileach's lands ; 
Thy noble brothers, justly dear, 
Thy nephew, long to be deplored 
By Ulster's bands. 
Theirs were not souls wherein dull Time 
Could domicile Decay or house 
Decrepitude ! 
They passed from Earth ere Manhood's prime, 
Ere years had power to dim their brows 
Or chill their blood. 

I Keen, or Caoine, the fnneral-wail. 



388 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

And who can marvel o'er thy grief, 
Or who can blame thy flowing tears, 
That knows their source? 
O'Donnell, Dunnasava's chief, 
Cut oflP amid his vernal years, 
Lies here a corse 
Beside his brother Cathbar, whom 
Tirconnell of the Helmets mourns 
In deep despair — 
For valour, truth, and comely bloom, 
For all that greatens and adorns, 
A peerless pair. 

O, had these twain, and he, the third, 
The Lord of Mourne, O'lSTiaU's son. 
Their mate in death — 
A prince in look, in deed and word — 
Had these three heroes yielded on 
The field their breath, 
O, had they fallen on Crifian's plain, 
There would not be a town or clan 
From shore to sea. 
But would with shrieks bewail the Slain, 
Or chant aloud the exulting rann^ 
Of jubilee! 

When high the shout of battle rose. 

On fields where Freedom's torch still burned 
Through Erin's gloom, 
If one, if barely one of those 

"Were slain, all Ulster would have mourned 
The hero's doom ! 

1 Song. 



389 



If at Athboy, where hosts of brave 
Ulidian horsemen sank beneath 
The sliock of spears, 
Yonng Hugh O'lSTeill had found a grave, 
Long must the north have wept his death 
With heart-wrung tears ! 

If on the day of Ballachrayre 
The Lord of Mourne had met, thus young, 
A warrior's fate. 
In vain would such as thou desire 

To mourn, alone, the champion sprung 
From Niall the Great ! 
No marvel this — for all the Dead, 
Heaped on the field, pile over pile, 
At Mullach-brack, 
"Were scarce an eric^ for his head. 

If Death had stayed his footsteps while 
On victory's track ! 

If on the Day of Hostages 

The fruit had from the parent bough 
Been rudely torn 
In sight of Munster's bands — Mac-Nee's — 
Such blow the blood of Conn, I trow, 
Could ill have borne. 
If on the day of Balloch-boy, 

Some arm had laid, by foul surprise, 
The chieftain low. 
Even our victorious shout of joy 

Would soon give place to rueful cries 
And groans of woe ! 

1 A compensation or fine. 

83* 



390 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

If on the day the Saxon host 

Were forced to fly — a day so great 
For Ashanee^ — 
The Chief had been untimely lost, 

Our conquering troops should moderate 
Their mirthful glee. 
There would not lack on Lifford's day, 
From Gal way, from the glens of Boyle, 
From Limerick's towers, 
A marshalled file, a long array, 
Of mourners to bedew the soil 
With tears in showers ! 

If on the day a sterner fate 

Compelled his flight from Athenree, 
His blood had flowed. 
What numbers all disconsolate 

Would come unasked, and share with thee 
Affliction's load ! 
If Derry's crimson field had seen 

His life-blood off'ered up, though 'twere 
On Victory's shrine, 
A thousand cries would swell the heen^ 
A thousand voices of despair 
Would echo thine ! 

O, had the fierce Dalcassian swarm 
That bloody night on Fergus' banks 
But slain our Chief, 
When rose his camp in wild alarm — 
How would the triumph of his ranks 
Be dashed with grief! 

1 Ballyshannon. 



MANGAN. 391 

How would the troops of Murbacli mourn 
If on the Curlew Mountains' day, 
Which England rued, 
Some Saxon hand had left them lorn, 
By shedding there, amid the fray, 
Their prince's blood ! 

Red would have been our warrior's eyes 
Had Eoderick found on Sligo's field 
A gory grave, 
No Northern Chief would soon arise 
So sage to guide, so strong to shield. 
So swift to save. 
Long would Leith-Cuinn have wept if Hugh 
Had met the death he oft had dealt 
Among the foe 
But, had our Roderick fallen too. 
All Erin must, alas ! have felt 
The deadly blow ! , 

What do I say ? Ah, woe is me ! 
Already we bewail in vain 
Their fatal fall ! 
And Erin, once the Great and Free, 
Now vainly mourns her breakless chain, 
And iron thrall ! 
Then, daughter of O'Donnell, dry 
Thine overflowing eyes, and turn 
Thy heart aside, 
For Adam's race is born to die. 
And sternly the sepulchral urn 
Mocks human pride ! 



392 imSH ANTHOLOGY. 

Look not, nor sigli, for earthly tlirone, 
Nor place tby trust in arm of clay, 
But on thy knees 
Uplift thy soul to God alone, 

For all things go their destined way 
As He decrees. 
Embrace the faithful Crucifix, 

And seek the path of pain and prayer 
Thy Saviour trod ; 
Nor let thy spirit intermix 

With earthly hope and worldly care 
Its groans to God ! 

And Thou, O mighty Lord ! whose ways 
Are far above our feeble minds 
To understand, 
Sustain us in these doleful days, 

And render light the chain that binds 
Our fallen land ! 
Look down upon our dreary state. 
And through the ages that may still 
Koll sadly on, 
Watch thou o'er hapless Erin's fate. 
And shield at least from darker ill 
The blood of Conn ! 



"The Saturday before the flight, the Earl of Tyrone was with the lord-deputy 
at Slane, where he had spoken with his lordship of his journey into England, and 
told him he would be there about the beginning of Michaelmas term, according to 
his Majesty's directions. He took leave of the lord-deputy in a more sad and pas- 
sionate manner than was usual with him. From thence he went to Mellifont and 
Garret Moore's house, where he wept abundantly when he took his leave, giving 
a solemn farewell to every child and every servant in the house, which made them 
all marvel, because in general it was not his manner to use such compliments. On 
Monday he went to Dungarvan, where he rested two whole days, and on Wednesday 
night, they say he travelled all night. It is likewise reported that the countess, 
his wife, beinj; exceedingly weary, slipped down from her horse, and weeping, 



MANGAN. 393 



said, ' She could go no further.' Whereupon the earl drew his sword, and swore a 
great oath that ' he would kill her on the spot if she would not pass on with him, 
and put on a more cheerful countenance.' When the party, which consisted (men, 
women, and children) of fifty or sixty persons, arrived at Loch Foyle, it was found 
that their journey had not been so secret but that the governor there had notice of 
it, and sent to invite Tyrone and his son to dinner. Their haste, however, was 
such that they accepted not his courtesy, but hastened on to Rathmulla, a town on 
the west side of Lough Swilly, where the Earl of Tyrconnell and his company met 
with them. From thence the whole party embarked, and, landing on the coast of 
Normandy, proceeded through France to Brussels, Davies concludes his curious 
narrative, with a few pregnant words, in which the difficulties that England had 
to contend with in conquering Tyrone are thus acknowledged with all the frank- 
ness of a generous foe :— ' As for us that are here,' he says, ' we are glad to see the 
day wherein the countenance and majesty of the law and civil government hath ban- 
ished Tyrone out of Ireland, which the best army in Europe, and the expense of 
two millions of sterling pounds had not been able to bring to pass.' " — 3Ioore's 
Ireland. 



)'Pusseg's #be to llje JUagnir^.' 



[O'Hussey, the last hereditary bard of the great sept of Magnire, of Fermanagh, 
who flourished about 1630, possessed a fine genius. He commenced his vocation 
when quite a youth, by a poem celebrating the escape of the famous Hugh Roe 
O'Donnell from Dublin Castle, in 1591, into which he had been treacherously be- 
trayed. The noble ode which O'Hussey addressed to Hugh Maguire, when that 
chief had gone on a dangerous expedition, in the depth of an unusually severe 
■winter, is as interesting an example of the devoted affection of the bard to his 
chief, and as vivid a picture of intense desolation, as could be well conceived.] 

Where is my Chief, my Master, this bleak night, mavrone ! 
O, cold, cold, miserably cold is this bleak night for Hugh, 
Its showery, arrowy, speary sleet pierceth one through 

and through, 
Pierceth one to the very bone ! 

1 Mr. Ferguson, in a fine piece of criticism on this poem, remarks: "There is 
a vivid vigor in these descriptions, and a savage power in the antithetical climax, 
which claim a character almost approaching to sublimity. Nothing can be more 
graphic, yet more diversified, than his images of unmitigated horror— nothing 
more grandly startling than his heroic conception of the glow of glory triumphant 
over frozen toil. We have never read this poem without recurring, and that by 
no unworthy association, to Napoleon in his Russian campaign. Yet, perhaps 
O'Hussey has conjured up a picture of more inclement desolation, in his rude idea 
of northern horrors, than could be legitimately employed by a poet of the present 



394 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Rolls real thunder? Or, was that red, livid light 

Only a meteor? I scarce know; but through the mid- 
night dim 

The pitiless ice-wind streams. Except the hate that per- 
secutes Mm 

Nothing hath cruder venomy might. 

An awful, a tremendous night is this, meseems ! 

The flood-gates of the rivers of heaven, I think, have been 

burst wide — 
Down from the overcharged clouds, like unto headlong 

ocean's tide, 
Descends grey rain -in roaring streams. 

Though he were even a wolf ranging the round green 

woods. 
Though he were even a pleasant salmon in the unchain- 

able sea, 
Though he were a wild mountain eagle, he could scarce 

bear, he, 
This sharp, sore sleet, these howling floods. 

O, mournful is my soul this night for Hugh Maguire ! 
Darkly, as in a dream he strays ! Before him and behind 
Triumphs the tyrannous anger of the wounding wind, 
The wounding wind, that burns as fire! 

It is my bitter grief — it cuts me to the heart — 
That in the country of Clan Darry this should be his 
fate! 

day, when the romance of geographical obscurity no longer permits us to imagine 
the Phlegrean regions of endless storm, where the snows of Haemus fall mingled 
with the lightnings of Etna, amid Bistonian wilds or Hyrcanian forests."— 2>i(6h'n 
Universily Magaiine, vol. iv. 



» MANGAN. 395 

O, woe is me, where is he? Wandering, houseless, des- 

ohxte, 
Alone, without or guide or chartl 

Medreams I see just now his face, the strawberry-bright. 

Uplifted to the blackened heavens, while the tempestuous 
winds 

Blow fiercely over and round him, and the smiting sleet- 
shower blinds 

The hero of Galang to-night! 

Large, large affliction unto me and mine it is, 

That one of his majestic bearing, his fair, stately form. 

Should thus be tortured and o'erborne — that this unsparing 

storm 
Should wreak its wrath on head like his ! • 

That his great hand, so oft the avenger of the oppressed. 
Should this chill, churlish night, perchance, be paralyzed 

by frost — 
"While through some icicle-hung thicket — as one lorn and 

lost — 
He walks and wanders without rest. 

The tempest-driven torrent deluges the mead. 
It overflows the low banks of the rivulets and ponds — 
The lawns and pasture-grounds lie locked in icy bonds, 
So that the cattle cannot feed. 

The pale bright margins of the streams are seen by none. 
Rushes and sweeps along the untamable flood on every 
side — • 



396 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. , 

It penetrates and fills the cottagers' dwellings far and 

wide — 
Water and land are blent in one. 

Through some dark woods, 'mid bones of monsters, Hugh 
• now strays, 

As he confronts the storm with anguished heart, but man- 
ly brow — 

! what a sword-wound to that tender heart of his were 
now 

A backward glance at peaceful days ! 

But other thoughts are his — thoughts that can still inspire 
With joy and an onward-bounding hope the bosom of 

Mac-ISTee — 
Thoughts of bis warriors charging like bright billows of 

the sea,' 
Borne on the wind's wings, flashing fire ! 

And though frost glaze to-night the clear dew of his eyes, 
And w^hite ice-gauntlets glove his noble fine fair fingers 

o'er, 
A warm dress is to him that lightning-garb he ever wore, 
The lightning of the soul, not skies. 

AVRAN.^ 

Hugh marched forth to the fight — I grieved to see him so 

depart ; 
And lo! to-night he wanders frozen, rain-drenched, sad, 

betrayed — 
But the memory of the Umeiohite mansions his right hand 

hath lail 
In ashes^ warms the hero''s heart ! 

1 A concluding stanza, generally intended as a recapitulation of the entire poem. 



MANGAN. 391 



(a JACOBITE RELIC — FROM THE IRISH.) 

Long they pine in weary woe, the nobles of our land, 
Long they wander to and fro, proscribed, alas! and 

banned ; 
Feastless, houseless, altarless, they bear the exile's brand ; 
But their hope is in the coming-to of Kathaleen Ny- 

Houlahan ! 

Think her not a ghastly hag, too hideous to be seen, 
Call her not unseemly names, our matchless Kathaleen ; 
Young she is, and fair she is, and would be crowned a queen, 
Were the king^s son at home here with Kathaleen 
Ny-Houlahan ! 

Sweet and mild would look her face, O none so sweet and 

mild. 
Could she crush the foes by whom her beauty is reviled ; 
Woollen plaids would grace herself and robes of silk her 

child. 
If the king's son were living here with Kathaleen Ny- 

Houlahan ! 

Sore disgrace it is to see the Arbitress of thrones, 
Vassal to a Saxoneen of cold and sapless bones ! 
Bitter anguish wrings our souls — with heavy sighs and 
groans 
We wait the Young Dehverer of Kathaleen Ny-Hou- 
lahan ! 

1 Anglice, Catherine Holohan, a name by which Ireland was allegorically known. 

34 



398 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Let us pray to Him who holds Life's issues in his hands — 
Him who formed the mighty globe, with all its thousand 

lands ; 
Girding them with seas and mountains, rivers deep, and 

strands, 
To cast a look of pity upon Kathaleen Ny-Houlahan ! 

He, who over sands and waves led Israel along — 

He, who fed, with heavenly bread, that chosen tribe and 

throng — 
He, who stood by Moses, when his foes were fierce and 

strong — 
May He show forth His might in saving Kathaleen 

Ny-Houlahan ! 



S^flcome to llje prince. 

(a JACOBITE RELIC — FROM THE IRISH.) 

[This was written about the period of the battle of Culloden (27th April, 1746), by 
William Hefifei nan, surnamed Dall, or the Blind, of Shronehill, county Tipperary.] 

Lift up the drooping head, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin!^ 

Her blood yet boundeth red 

Through the myriad veins of Erin. 

No ! no ! she is not dead 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin! 
Lo ! she redeems 

The lost years of bygone ages — 

J Dark Michael M'Gilla Kerin, prince of Ossory. 



MANGAN. 399 

New glory beams 
Henceforth on her History's pages ! 
Her long penitential Night of Sorrow 
Yields at length before the reddening morrow! 

You heard the thunder-shout, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin! 
Saw the lightning streaming out 

O'er the purple hills of Erin ! 
And, bide you yet in doubt, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin? 
O ! doubt no more ! 
Through Ulidia's voiceful valleys, 

On Shannon's shore. 
Freedom's burning spirit rallies. 
Earth and Heaven unite in sign and omen^ 
Bodeful of the downfall of our foemen. 

Thurot commands the North, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin ! 
Louth sends her heroes forth. 

To hew down the foes of Erin ! 
Swords gleam in field and gorth^ 
Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin! 
Up ! up 1 my friend ! 
There's a glorious goal before us ; 

Here will Ave blend 
Speech and soul in this grand chorus : 
"By the Heaven that gives us one more token, 
"We will die, or see our shackles broken!" 



1 This is an allusion to that well-known atmospherical phenomenon of the " cloud 
armies," which is said to have been so common about this period in Scotland. 

2 GorOi literally means Garden. 



400 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Charles leaves the Grampian hills, 
Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin ! 

Charles, whose appeal yet thrills. 

Like a clarion-blast, through Erin. 

Charles, he whose image fills 

Thy soul, too, Mac-Giolla-Kierin ! 
Ten thousand strong. 

His clans move in brilliant order. 
Sure that ere long 

He will march them o'er the Border, 

While the dark-haired daughters of the Highlands 

Crown with wreaths the Monarch of three islands ! 

Fill, then, the ale-cup high, 

Meehal Dubh Mac-Giolla-Kierin ! 

Fill ! the bright hour is nigh 

That shall give her own to Erin! 

Those who so sadly sigh. 

Even as you, Mac-Giolla-Kierin, 
Henceforth shall sing. 

Hark ! — O'er heathery hill and dell come 
Shouts for the King ! 

Welcome, our Deliverer! Welcome ! 

Thousands this glad night, ere turning bedward, 

Will with us drink, "Victory to Charles Edward!" 



401 



'^nmtnt for Sanba.* 

(from the IRISH.) 

O, MY laud ! O, my love ! 
What a woe, and how deep, 
Is thy death to my long mourning soul ! 
God alone, God above, 

Can awake thee from sleep. 
Can release thee from bondage and dole ! 
Alas, alas, and alas ! 
For the once proud people of Banba 1 

As a tree in its prime. 

Which the axe layeth low, 
Didst thou foil, O, unfortunate land ! 
Not by Time, nor thy crime, 
Came the shock and the blow. 
They were given by a false felon hand I 
Alas, alas, and alas. 
For the once proud people of Banba ! 

O, my grief of all griefs 
Is to see how thy throne 
Is usurped, whilst tliyself art in thrall ! 
Other lands have their chiefs. 
Have their kings, thou alone 



1 Banba (Banva) was one of the most ancient names given by the Bards to 
Ireland. 

34* 



402 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Art a wife, yet a widow withal ! 
Alas, alas, and alas. 
For the once proud people of Banba ! 

The high house of O'lSTeill 
Is gone down to the dust, 
The O'Brien is clanless and banned ; 
And the steel, the red steel. 
May no more be the trust 
Of the Faithful and Brave in the land! 
Alas, alas, and alas. 
For the once proud peojjle of Banba ! 

True, alas ! Wrong and "Wrath 
Were of old all too rife. 
Deeds were done which no good man admires; 
And perchance Heaven hath 
Chastened us for the strife 
And the blood-shedding ways of our sires ! 
Alas, alas, and alas. 

For the once proud people of Banba ! 

But, no more ! This our doom. 
While our hearts yet are warm, 
Let us not over-weakly deplore ! 
For the hour soon may loom 
When the Lord's mighty hand 
Shall be raised for our rescue once more ! 

And our grief shall be turned into joy 
For the still proud people of Banba I 



I 



MANGAN. 403 



(from the IRISH.) 

Ellen Bawn, Ellen Bawn, you darling, darling dear, 

Sit awhile beside me here, I'll die unless I'm near you ! 

'Tis for you I'd swim the Suir and breast the Shannon's 
waters ; 

For Ellen dear, you've not your peer in Galway's bloom- 
ing daughters ! 

Had I Limerick's gems and gold at will to mete and 

measure, 
Were Loughrea's abundance mine, and all Portumna's 

treasure, 
These might lure me, might insure me many and many a 

new love, 
But O ! no bribe could pay your tribe for One like you, 

my true love! 

Blessings be on Connaught ! that's the place for sport and 

raking! 
Blessings too, my love, on you, a-sleeping and a- waking ! 
I'd have met you, dearest Ellen, when the sun went under, 
But, woe! the flooding Shannon broke across my path in 

thunder ! 

Ellen! I'd give all the deer in Limerick's parks and arbors, 
Ay, and all the ships that rode last year in Munster's har- 
bors, 



404 IRISH ANTIIOLOGT. 

Could I blot from Time the hour I first became your lover, 
For, O ! you've given my heart a wound it never can re- 
cover ! 

Would to God that in the sod my corpse to-night were 

lying, 
And the wild birds wheeling o'er it, and the winds 

a-sighing, 
Since your cruel mother and your kindred choose to sever 
Two hearts that Love would blend in one for ever and for 

ever ! 



3ohz Sallab. 

(from the IRISH.) 



Lonely from my home I come, 

To cast myself upon your tomb, 
And to weep. 
Lonely from my lonesome home, 

My lonesome house of grief and gloom, 
While I keep 
Vigil often all night long, 

For your dear, dear sake, 
Praying many a prayer so wrong 

That my heart would break ! 

Gladly, my blighted flower, 
Sweet Apple of my bosom's Tree, 
Would I now 



MANGAN. 405 

Stretch me in your dark death-bower 

Beside your corpse, and lovingly 
Kiss your brow. 
But we'll meet ere many a day, 

Never more to part, 
For even now I feel the clay 

Gathering round my heart. 

In my soul doth darkness dwell. 

And through its dreary winding caves 
Ever flows, 
Ever flows with moaning swell. 

One ebbless flood of many Waves, 
Which are Woes. 
Death, love, has me in his lures, 

But that grieves not me, 
So my ghost may meet with yours 

On yon moon-loved lea. 

When the neighbours near my cot 

Believe me sunk in slumber deep, 
I arise — 
For, O ! 'tis a weary lot. 

This watching eye, and wooing sleep 
With hot eyes — 
I arise, and seek your grave. 

And pour forth my tears ; 
While the winds that nightly rave. 

Whistle in mine ears. 

Often turns my memory back 
To that dear evening in the dell. 
When we twain 



406 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Sheltered by the sloe-hush black, 

Sat, laughed, and talked, while thick sleet fell, 
And cold rain. 
Thanks to God ! no guilty leaven 

Dashed our cliildish mirth. 
You rejoice for this in Heaven, 

I not less on earth ! 

Love ! the priests feel wroth with me, 

To find I shrine your image still 
In my breast. 
Since you are gone eternally, 

And your fair frame lies in the chill 
Grave at rest ; 
But true Love outlives the shroud. 

Knows nor check nor change. 
And beyond Time's world of Oloud 

Still must reign and range. 

"Well may now your kindred mourn 

The threats, the wiles, the cruel arts, 
They long tried 
On the child they left forlorn ! 

They broke the tenderest heart of hearts, 
And she died. 
Curse upon the love of show ! 

Curse on Pride and Greed ! 
They would wed you " high"— and woe I 

Here behold their meed 1 



MANGAN. 407 



€l^t WiBxaix flf Conor ^'^itUibait, 

(from the IRISH) 

Last night, amid dreams without number, 
I beheld a bright vision in slumber : 
A maiden with rose-red and lily-white features, 
Disrobed of all earthly cumber. 

Her hair o'er her shoulder was flowing 
In clusters all golden and glowing, 
Luxuriant and thick as in meads are the grass-blades 
That the scythe of the mower is mowing. 

"With her brilliant eyes, glancing so keenly, 
Her lips, smiling sweet and serenely. 
Her pearly- white teeth and her high-arched eyebrows, 
She looked most commanding and queenly. 

Her long taper fingers might dally 
With the harp in some grove or green alley j 
And her ivory neck and her beautiful bosom 
Were white as the snows of the valley. 

Bowing down, now, before her so lowly, 
With words that came trembling and slowly, 
I asked what her name was, and where I might worship 
At the shrine of a being so holy ! 

" This nation is thy land and my land," 
She answered me with a sad smile, and 
The sweetest of tones — " I, alas ! am the spouse of 
The long-banished chiefs of our island !" 



408 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

" Ah ! dimmed is that island's fair glory, 
And through sorrow her children grow hoary ; 
Yet, seat thee beside me, O Nnrse of the Heroes, 
And tell me thy tragical story!" 

" The Druids and Sages unfold it — 
The Prophets and Saints have foretold it, 
That the Stuart would come o'er the sea with his legions, 
And that all Eire's tribes should behold it ! 

" Away, then, with sighing and mourning. 
The hearts in men's bosoms are burning 
To free this green land — oh ! be sure you will soon see 
The days of her greatness returning ! 

" Up, heroes, ye valiant and peerless ! 
Up, raise the loud war-shout so fearless ! 
While bonfires shall blaze, and the bagpipe and trumpet 
Make joyous a land now so cheerless ! 

"For the troops of King Louis shall aid us; — 
The chains that now gall and degrade us 
Shall crumble to dust, and our bright swords shall slaughter 
The wretches whose wiles have betrayed us !" 



(from the IRISH.) 



[Patrick Condon, the author of this song, was a native of the barony of Imo- 
killy, county of Cork, and resided about four miles from the town of Youghal. 
About thirty years ago he emigrated to North America, and located himself some 
distance from Quebec. The Englishman who has ever, in the course of his travels, 
chanced to come into proximity with an Irish "hedge school," will be at no loss 



MANGAN. 409 

to conjecture the origin of the frequent allusions to heathen mythology in these 
songs. They are to be traced, we may say, exclusively to that intimate acquaint- 
ance with the classics which the Munster peasant never failed to acquire from 
the instructions of the road-side pedagogue. The Kerry rustic, it is known, speaks 
Latin like a citizen of old Rome, and has frequently, though ignorant of a syllable 
of English, conversed in the language of Cicero and Virgil with some of the most 
learned aud intellectual of English tourists. Alas ! that the acuteness of intellect 
for which the Irish peasant is remarkable should not have afforded a hint to our 
rulers, amid their many and fruitless attempts at what is called conciliation ! 
Would it not be a policy equally worthj^ of their judgment, and deserving of 
praise in itself, to establish schools for the Irish in which they might be taught, 
at least, the elementary principles of education through the medium of their native 
tongue? This course, long advocated by the most enlightened of every class and 
creed, has been lately brought forward in an able manner by Mr. Christopher 
Anderson. — See his Sketches of the Native Irish.] 

The evening was waning : long, long I stood pondering 

Nigh a green wood on my desolate lot. 
The setting sun's glory then set ine a-wondering, 

And the deep tone of the stream in the grot. 
The birds on the boughs were melodiously singing, too, 

Even though the night was advancing apace; 
Voices of fox-hunters, — voices were ringing too, 

And deep-mouthed hounds followed up the long chase. 

Nut-trees around rae grew beauteous and flourishing — 
Of the ripe fruit I partook without fear — 

Sweet was their flavour, — sweet, healthful, and nourish- 
ing- 
Honey I too found — the best of good cheer ! 

When, lo ! I beheld a fair maiden draw near to rae; 
The noblest of maidens in figure and mind — 

One who hath been, and will ever be dear to me — 
Lovely and mild above all of her kind ! 

Long were her locks, hanging down in rich tresses all — 

Golden and plaited, luxuriant and curled ; 
Her eyes slione like stars of that Heaven which blesses 
all: 
Swan-white was her bosom, the pi-ide of the world. 
35 



410 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Her marvellous face like the rose and the lily shone ; 

Pearl-like her teeth were as ever were seen ; 
In her calm beauty she proudly, yet stilly shone — 

Meek as a vestal, yet grand as a Queen. 

Long-time I gazed on her, keenly and silently — 

Who might she be, this young damsel sublime? 
Had she been chased from a foreign land violently ? 

Had she come hither to wile away time ? 
Was she Calypso ? I questioned her pleasantly — 

Ceres, or Hecate the bright undeliled ? 
Thetis, who sank the stout vessels incessantly ? 

Bateia the tender, or Hebe the mild ? 

" None of all those whom you name" — she replied to me : 

" One broken-hearted by strangers am I ; 
But the day draweth near when the rights now denied 
to me 

All shall flame forth like the stars in the sky. 
Yet twenty -five years and you'll witness my glorionsness : 

Doubt me not, friend, for in God is my trust; 
And they who exult in their barren victoriousness 

Suddenly, soon, shall go down to the dust!" 



(from the ikish.) 



[The first peculiarit}^ likely to strike the reader is the remarkable sameness per- 
vading those Irish pieces which assume a narrative form. The poet usually wan- 
ders forth of a summer evening over moor and mountain, mournfully meditating on 
the wrongs and sufiferings of his native laud, until at length, sad and weary, he 



411 



lies down to repose in some flowery vale, or on the slope of some green and lonely 
hill-side. He sleeps, and in a dream beholds a young female of more than mortal 
beauty, who approaches and accosts him. She is always represented as appearing 
in naked loveliness. Her person is described with a minuteness of detail bordering 
upon tediousness— her hands, for instance, are said to be such as would execute the 
most complicated and delicate embroidery. The enraptured poet inquires whether 
she be one of the heroines of ancient storj'— Serairarais, Helen, or Medea— or one of 
the illustrious women of his own country — Deirdre, Blathnaid, or Cearnnit, or some 
Banshee, like Aoibhill, Cliona, or Aine, and the answer he receives is, that she is 
none of those eminent personages, but Eire, once a queen, and now a slave— of 
old in the enjoyment of all honour and dignity, but to-day in thrall to the foe and 
the stranger. Yet wretched as is her condition, she does not despair, and encour- 
ages her afflicted child to hope, prophesying that speedy relief will shortly reach 
him from abroad. The song then concludes, though in some instances the poet ap- 
pends a few consolatory reflections of his own, by way of finale. 

The present song is one of the class which we have described, and Sighile Ni 
Ghadharadh (Celia O'Gara), in the language of allegory, means Ireland,] 

Alone as I wandered in sad meditation, 

And pondered my sorrows and souPs desolation, 

A beautiful vision, a maiden, drew near me, 

An angel she seemed sent from Heaven to cheer me. 

Let none dare to tell me I acted amiss 

Because on her lips I imprinted a kiss — 

O ! that was a moment of exquisite bliss ! 

For sweetness, for grace, and for brightness of feature, 

Earth holds not the match of this loveliest creature ! 



Her eyes, like twin stars, shone and sparkled with lustre ; 

Her tresses hung waving in many a cluster, 

And swept the long grass all around and beneath her ; 

She moved like a being who trod upon ether. 

And seemed to disdain the dominions of space — 

Such beauty and majesty, glory and grace. 

So faultless a form, and so dazzling a face. 

And ringlets so shining, so many and golden, 

"Were never beheld since the storied years olden. 

Alas, that this damsel, so noble and queenly. 

Who spake, and who looked, and who moved so serenely, 



412 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

Should languish in woe, that her throne should have 

crumbled ; 
Her haughty oppressors abiding unhumbled. 
O ! woe that she cannot with horsemen and swords, 
With fleets and with armies, with chieftains and lords, 
Chase forth from the isle the vile Sassenach hordes. 
Who too long in their hatred have trodden us under, 
And wasted green Eire with slaughter and plunder ! 

She hath studied God's Gospels, and Truth's divine pages — 

The tales of the Druids, and lays of old sages ; 

She hath quaffed the pure wave of the fountain Pierian, 

And is versed in the wars of the Trojan and Tyrian ; 

So gentle, so modest, so artless and mild. 

The wisest of women, yet meek as a child ; 

She pours forth her spirit in speech undefiled ; 

But her bosom is pierced, and her soul hath been shaken, 

To see herself left so forlorn and forsaken ! 



"0 maiden !" so spake I, " thou best and divinest, 

Thou, who as a sun in thy loveliness shinest, 

Who art thou, and whence? — and what land dost thou 

dwell in ? 
Say, art thou fair Deirdre, or canst thou be Helen ?" 
And thus she made answer — " What ! dost thou not see 
The nurse of the Chieftains of Eire in me — 
The heroes of Banba, the valiant and free ? 
I was great in my time, ere the Gall ' became stronger 
Than the Gael, and my sceptre passed o'er to the 

Wronger !" 

1 Gall, the stranger ; Gaels, the native Irish. 



413 



Thereafter she told me, with bitter lamenting, 
A story of sorrow beyond all inventing — 
Her name was Fair Eire, the Mother of true hearts, 
The daughter of Conn, and the spouse of the Stewarts. 
She had sutfered all woes, had been tortured and flayed, 
Had been trodden and spoiled, been deceived and be- 
trayed ; 
But her champion, she hoped, would soon come to her aid, 
And the insolent Tyrant who now was her master 
Would then be overwhelmed by defeat and disaster ! 

O, fear not, fair mourner ! — thy lord and thy lover, 

Prince Charles, with his armies, will cross the seas over. 

Once more, lo ! the Spirit of Liberty rallies 

Aloft on thy mountains, and calls from thy valleys. 

Thy children will rise and will take, one and all, 

Revenge on the murderous tribes of the Gall, 

And to thee shall return each renowned castle hall ; 

And again thou shalt revel in plenty and treasure. 

And the wealth of the land shall be thine without measure. 



^t Patrick's Jgmit hzioxt STaral^. 

[The original Irish of this hymn was published, by Dr. Petrie, in vol. xviii., 
" Transactions of the Royal Irish Academy." It is in the Bearla Feine, the most 
ancient dialect of the Irish, the same in which the Brehon laws were written. It 
was printed from the "Liber Hymnorum," preserved in the Library of Trinity 
College, Dublin, a manuscript, which, as Dr. Petrie proves by the authority of 
Usher and others, must be nearly 1250 years old.] 

At Taraii to-day, in this awful hour, 

I call on the holy Trinity ! 
Glory to Him who reigneth in power, 
35* 



414 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

The God of the elements, Father, and Son, 
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 
The ever-existing Divinity ! 



On Christ, the Omnipotent Word, 

Wlio came to redeem from Death and Sin 

Our fallen race ; 

And I put and I place 
The virtue that lieth and liveth in 

His Incarnation lowly, 

His Baptism pure and holy, 
His life of toil, and tears, and affliction, 
His dolorous Death — his Crucifixion, 
His Burial, sacred and sad and lone. 

His Kesurrection to life again. 
His glorious Ascension to Heaven's high Throne, 
And, lastly, his future dread 

And terrible coming to judge all men — 
Both the Living and Dead 

At Tarah to-day I put and I place 

The virtue that dwells in the Seraphim's love, 
And the virtue and grace 

That are in the obedience 
And unshaken allegiance 
Of all the Archangels and angels above. 
And in the hope of the Resurrection 
To everlasting reward and election. 
And in the prayers of the Fathers of old. 
And in the truths the Prophets foretold. 
And in the Apostles' manifold preachings, 
And in the Confessors' faith and teacliings. 



MANGAN. 415 



And in the purity ever dwelling 

Witliin the immaculate Virgin's breast, 

And in the actions bright and excelling 
Of all good men, the just and the blest . 



At Taeah to-dat, in this fateful hour, 

I place all Heaven with its power. 

And the sun with its brightness. 

And the snow with its whiteness. 

And fire with all the strength it hath. 

And lightning with its rapid wrath, 

And the winds with their swiftness along their path, 

And the sea with its deepness, 

And the rocks with their steepness. 

And the earth with its starkness,^ 

All these I place. 

By God's almighty help and grace, 
Between myself and the Powers of Darkness. 

At Tarah to-day 
May God be my stay ! 
May the strength of God now nerve me ! 
May the power of God preserve me ! 
May God the Almighty be near me ! 

May God the Almighty espy me ! 
May God the Almighty hear me ! 

May God give me eloquent speech ! 
May the arm of God protect me ! 
May the wisdom of God direct me ! 

May God give me power to teach and to preach ! 



1 Properly, " strength, •' "firmness," from the Anglo-Saxon, starJc, "strong,' 
stiflF." 



416 IRISH ANTHOLOGY. 

May the sliield of God defend me ! 
May the host of God attend me, 
And ward me, 
And guard me. 
Against the wiles of demons and devils, 
Against the temptations of vices and evils, 
Against the bad passions and wrathful will 

Of the reckless mind and the wicked heart, 
Against every man who designs me ill, 

Whether leagued with others or plotting apart ! 

In this hour of houes, 
I place all those powers 
Between myself and every foe, 
Who threaten my body and soul 
With danger or dole. 
To protect me against the evils that flow 
From lying soothsayers' incantations, 
From the gloomy laws of the Gentile nations, 
From Heresy's hateful innovations. 
From Idolatry's rites and invocations, 
Be those my defenders. 
My guards against every ban — 
And spell of smiths, and Druids, and women ; 
In fine, against every knowledge that renders 
The light Heaven sends us dim in 
The spirit and soul of Man ! 

May Christ, I pray, 
Protect me to-day 
Against poison and fire. 
Against drowning and wounding, 



MANGAN. 41 Y 

That so, in His grace abounding, 
I may earn the Preacher's hire ! 

Christ, as a light, 

Illumine and guide me ! 
Christ, as a shield, o'ershadow and cover rae ! 
Christ be under me ! Christ be over me ! 

Christ be beside me 

On left-hand and right ! 
Christ be before me, behind rae, about me ! 
Christ this day be within and without me ! 

Christ, the lowly and meek, 

Christ, the All-Powerful, be 
In the heart of each to whom I speak, 
In the mouth of each who speaks to me ! 
In all who draw near me. 
Or see me or hear me ! 



At Tarah to-day, in this awful hour, 

I call on the Holy Trinity ! 
Glory to Him who reigneth in power. 
The God of the Elements, Father, and Son, 
And Paraclete Spirit, which Three are the One, 
The ever-existing Divinity ! 

Salvation dwells with the Lord, 

With Christ, the Omnipotent Word. 

From generation to generation 

Grant us, O Lord, thy grace and salvation ! 



APOCRYPHA. 



(from the ottoman.) 

I SEE thee ever in my dreams, 

Karaman ! 
Thy hundred hills, thy thousand streams, 

Karaman! O Karaman! 
As when thy gold-bright morning gleams, 
As when the deepening sunset seams 
With lines of light thy hills and streams, 

Karaman ! 
So thou loomest on my dreams, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 

The hot bright plains, the sun, the skies, 

Karaman ! 
Seem death-black marble to mine eyes, 

Karaman ! O Karaman I 
I turn from summer's blooms and dyes ; 
Yet in my dreams thou dost arise 
In welcome glory to my eyes, 

Karaman ! 
In thee my life of life yet lies, 

Karaman ! 



MANGAN. 419 

Thou still art holy in mine eyes, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 

Ere my fighting years were come, 

Karaman ! 
Troops were few in Erzerome, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
Their fiercest came from Erzerome, 
They came from L'khbar's palace dome, 
They dragged me forth from thee, my home, 

Karaman ! 
Thee, my own, my mountain home, 

Karaman ! 
In life and death, my spirit's liome, 

Karaman ! O Karanian ! 

O, none of all my sisters ten, 

Karaman! 
Loved like me my fellow- men, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
I was mild as milk till then, 
I was soft as silk till then ; 
Now my breast is as a den, 

Karaman! 
Foul with blood and bones of men, 

Karaman ! 
"With blood and bones of slaughtered men, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 

My boyhood's feelings newly born, 

Karaman ! 
Withered like young flowers uptorn, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 



420 APOCRYPHA. 

And in their stead sprang weed and thorn ; 
What once T loved now moves my scorn ; 
My burning eyes are dried to horn, 

Karaman ! 
I hate the blessed light of morn, 

Karaman ! 
It maddens me, the face of morn, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 

The Spahi wears a tyrant's cliains, 

Karaman ! 
But bondage worse than this remains, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
His heart is black with million stains : 
Thereon, as on Kaf's blasted plains, 
Shall never more fall dews and rains, 

Karaman ! 
Save poison-dews and bloody rains, 

Karaman ! 
Hell's poison-dews and bloody rains, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 

But life at worst must end ere long, 

Karaman ! 
AzreeP avengeth every wrong, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
Of late my thoughts rove more among 
Thy fields ; o'ershadowing fancies throng 
My mind, and texts of bodeful song, 

Karaman ! 

1 Tbe angel of death. 



421 



Azreel is terrible and strong, 

Karaman ! 
His lightning sword smites all ere long, 

Karaman! O Karaman! 

There's care to-night in Ukhbar's halls, 

Karaman ! 
There's hope too, for his trodden thralls, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 
"What lights flash red along yon walls ? 
Hark ! hark ! — the muster-trumpet calls !- 
I see the sheen of spears and shawls, 

Karaman ! 
The foe ! the foe ! — they scale the walls, 

Karaman ! 
To-night Murkd or Ukhbar falls, 

Karaman ! O Karaman ! 



(from the ottoman.) 

La' laha, il Allah !» 
Here we meet, we three, at length, 

Ararah, Osman, Perizad : 
Shorn of all our grace and strength, 

Poor, and old, and very sad ! 
We have lived, but live no more ; 

Life has lost its gloss for us, 

1 God alone is all-merciful I 

36 



422 APOCRYPHA. 

Since the days we spent of yore 

Boating down the Bosphorus ! 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bospliorus ! 

Old Time brought home no loss for us. 
We felt full of health and heart 

Upon the foamy Bosphorus ! 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Days indeed ! A shepherd's tent 

Served us then for house and fold ; 
All to whom we gave or lent. 

Paid us back a thousand fold. 
Troublous years by myriads wailed, 

Rarely had a cross for us, 
Never when we gaily sailed, 

Singing down the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

There never came a cross for us, 
While we daily, gaily sailed, 

Adown the meadowy Bosphorus. 

La' laha, il Allah! 
Blithe as birds we flew along. 

Laughed and quaffed and stared about ; 
Wine and roses, mirth and song, 

Were what most we cared about. 
Fame we left for quacks to seek. 

Gold was dust and dross for us, 
While we lived from week to week, 

Boating down the Bosphorus. 



MANGAN. 423 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 
And gold was dust and dross for us, 
While we lived from week to week, 
Aboating down the Bosphorus. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Friends we were, and would have shared 

Purses, had we twenty full. 
If we spent, or if we spared. 

Still our funds were plentiful. 
Save the hours we past apart ^ > 

Time hrought home no loss for us ; 
We felt full of hope and heart 

While we clove the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus 1 

For life has lost its gloss for us, 
Since the days we spent of yore 

Upon the pleasant Bosphorus ! 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Ah ! for youth's delirious hours, 

Man pays well in after days. 
When quenched hopes and palsied powers 

Mock his love-and-laughter days. 
Thorns and thistles on our path, 

Took the place of moss for us. 
Till false fortune's tempest wrath 

Drove us from the Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il A^ah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus! 

When thorns took place of moss for us, 



424 APOCRYPHA. 

Gone was all! Our hearts were graves 
Deep, deeper than the Bosphorus ! 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Gone is all ! In one abyss 

Lie Health, Youth, and Merriment! 
All we've learned amounts to this — 

Life's a sad experiment. 
"What it is we trebly feel 

Pondering what it was for us, 
When our shallop's bounding keel 

Clove the joyous Bosphorus. 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

We wail for what life was for us, 
When our shallop's bounding keel 

Clove the joyous Bosphorus ! 

THE WARNING. 

La' laha, il Allah ! 
Pleasure tempts, yet man has none 

Save himself t' accuse, if her 
Temptings prove, Avhen all is done, 

Lures hung out by Lucifer. 
Guard your fire in youth, O Friends! 

Manhood's is but Phosphorus, 
And bad luck attends and ends 

Boatings down the Bosphorus ! 
La' laha, il Allah ! 

The Bosphorus, the Bosphorus ! 

Youth's fire soon wanes to Phosphorus, 
And slight luck or grace attends 

Your boaters down the Bosphorus ! 



MANGAN. 425 



Clje iimc of tijc §nxmttibt$, 

(from the ARABIC.) 

My eyes are filmed, my beard is grey, 

I am bowed with the weight of years ; 
I would I were stretched ia my bed of clay, 

With my long-lost youth's compeers ! 
For back to the Past, though the thought brings woe, 

My memory ever glides — 
To the old, old time, long, long ago. 

The time of the Barmecides ! 
To the old, old time, long, long ago, 

The time of the Barmecides. 

Then Youth was mine, and a fierce wild will, 

And an iron arm in war. 
And a fleet foot high upon Ishkar's hill, 

When the watch-lights glimmered afar, 
And a barb as fiery as any I know 

That Khoord or Beddaween rides. 
Ere my friends lay low — long, long ago, 

In the time of the Barmecides. 
Ere my friends lay low— »long, long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

One golden goblet illumed my board. 

One silver dish was there ; 
At hand my tried Karamanian sword 

Lay always bright and bare, 
3G* 



426 APOCRYPHA. 

For those were the days when the angry blow 
Supplanted the word that chides — 

When hearts could glow— long, long ago, 
In the time of the Barmecides ; 

When hearts could glow — long, long ago, 
In the time of the Barmecides, 

Through city and desert my mates and I 

Were free to rove and roam. 
Our diapered canopy the deep of the sky, 

Or the roof of the palace dome — 
O ! ours was that vivid life to and fro 

Which only sloth derides — 
Men spent Life so, long, long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides, 
Men spent Life so, long, long ago. 

In the time of the Barmecides. 

I see rich Bagdad once again. 

With its turrets of Moorish mould. 
And the Khahf s twice five hundred men 

Whose binishes flamed with gold ; 
I call up many a gorgeous show 

Which the Pall of Oblivion hides — 
All passed Hke snow, long, long ago, 

With the time of the Barmecides ; 
All passed like snow, long, long ago, 

With tlie time of the Barmecides ! 

But mine eye is dim, and my beard is grey, 
And I bend with the weight of years — 

May I soon go down to the House of Clay 
Where slumber my Youth's compeers ! 



MANGAN. 427 

For witli them and the Past, tbongh the thought 
wakes woe, 

My memory ever abides ; 
And I mourn for the Times gone long ago, 

For the Times of the Barmecides ! 
I mourn for the Times gone long ago, 

For the Times of the Barmecides ! 



(from the SPANISH.) 

Look, mother! the mariner's rowing 

His galley adown the tide ; 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 

And be the mariner's bride ! 

I saw him one day through the wicket, 
I opened the gate and we met — 
As a bird in the fowler's net, 

Was I caught in my own green thicket. 

mother, my tears are flowing, 
I've lost my maidenly pride — 

I'll go if the mariner's going. 
And be the mariner's bride! 

This Love the tyrant evinces, 
Alas! an omnipotent might, 
He darkens the mind like Night. 

He treads on the necks of Princes ! 



428 APOCRYPHA. 

O mother, iny bosom is glowing, 
I'll go whatever betide, 

I'll go where the mariner's going, 
And be the mariner's bride ! 

Yes, mother ! the spoiler has reft me 

Of reason and self-control ; 

Gone, gone is my wretched soul, 
And only my body is left me ! 

The winds, O mother, are blowiii;^% 
The ocean is bright and wide ; 
I'll go where the mariner's going, 

And be the mariner's bride. 



€a i\t ^ix^ktizt Jl^nfir, calling ^imself gjaim ^ojoI 

(from the PERSIAN.) 

Thus writeth Meer Djafrit — 

I hate thee, Djaun Bool, 
Worse than Marid or Afrit, 

Or corpse-eating Ghool. 
I hate thee ike Sin, 

For thy mop-head of hair. 
Thy snub nose and bald chin, 

And thy turkeycock air. 
Thou vile Ferindjee ! 

That thou thus shouldst disturb an 



MANGAN. 429 



Old Moslim like me, 

With my Khizzilbash turban ! 
Old fogy like me, 

With my Khizzilbash turban! 

I spit on thy clothing, 

That garb for baboons ! 
I eye with deep loathing 

Thy tight pantaloons ! 
I curse the cravat 

That encircles thy throat. 
And thy cooking-pot hat. 

And thy swallow-tailed coat ! 
Go, hide thy thick sconce 

In some hovel suburban ; 
Or else don at once 

The red Moosleman turban. 
Thou dog, don at once 

The grand Khizzilbash turban I 



MISCELLANEOUS. 



^0ttl mxii Conntrg. 

Arise ! my slumbering soul, arise ! 
And learn what yet remains for thee 
To dree or do ! 
The signs are flaming in the skies ; 
A struggling world would yet be free, 
And live anew. 
The earthquake hath not yet been born, 
That soon shall rock the lands around, 
Beneath their base. 
Immortal freedom's thunder horn, 
As yet, yields but a doleful sound 
To Europe's race. 

Look round, my soul, and see and say 
If those about thee understand 
Their mission here; 
The will to sinite — the power to slay- 
Abound in every heart — and hand 
Afar, anear. 
But, God ! must yet the conqueror's sword 
Pierce mind., as heart, in this proud year? 
O, dream it not ! 



MANGAN. 431 

It sounds a false, blaspheming word, 

Begot and born of moral fear — 

And ill-begot ! 

To leave the world a name is nought; 
To leave a name for glorious deeds 
And works of love — 
A name to waken lightning thought, 
And fire the soul of hira who reads, 
This tells above. 
Napoleon sinks to-day before 

The ungilded shrine, the single soul 
Of Washington ; 
Teuth's name, alone, shall man adore, 
Long as the waves of time shall roll 
Henceforward on ! 

My countrymen ! my words are weak, 
My health is gone, my soul is dark, 
My heart is chill — 
Yet would I fain and fondly seek 
To see you borne in freedom's bark 
O'er ocean still. 
Beseech your God, and bide your hour — 
He cannot, will not, long be dumb ; 
Even DOW his tread 
Is heard o'er earth with coming power ; 
And coming, trust me, it will come, 
Else were he dead ! 



432 MISCELLANEOUS. 



Liberia. 

In Siberia's wastes 

The Ice-wind's breath 
"Woundeth like the toothed steel. 
Lost Siberia doth reveal 

Only blight and death. 

Blight and death alone. 

IsTo Summer shines. 
Night is interblent with Day. 
In Siberia's wastes alway 

The blood blackens, the heart pines. 

In Siberia's wastes 

No tears are shed, 
For they freeze within the brain. 
Nought is felt but dullest pain, 

Pain acute, yet dead ; 



"When years go by 
Funeral-paced, yet fugitive, 
"When man lives, and doth not live, 

Doth not live — nor die. 

In Siberia's wastes 

Are sands and rocks. 
Nothing blooms of green or soft, 
But the snowpeaks rise aloft 

And the gaunt ice-blocks. 



MANGAN. 433 

And the exile there 

Is one with those ; 
They are part, and he is part, 
For the sands are in his heart. 

And the killing snows. 

Therefore, in those wastes 

None curse the Czar. 
Each man''s tongue is cloven by 
The North Blast, who heweth nigh 

With sharp scymitar. 

And such doom each drees, 

Till, hunger-gnawn, 
And cold-slain, he at length sinks there, 
Yet scarce more a corpse than ere 

His last breath was drawn. 



gi Wimxx of Connaugljt ht t^t €\^iitmxt\i Ceitturg. 



"Kt moi, j'ai 6t6 aussi en Arcadie."— And I, I, too, ha /e been a dreamer. 
Inscription on a Painting hy Poussin. 



I WALKED entranced 
Through a land of Morn ; 
The sun, with wondrous excess of light, 
Shone down and glanced 
Over seas of corn 
And lustrous gardens aleft and right. 
37 



434 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Even ill the clime 
Of resplendent Spain, 
Beams no such sun upon sucb a land ; 
But it was tlie time, 
'Twas in the reign, 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 

Anon stood nigh 
By my side a man 
Of princely aspect and port sublime. 
Him queried I, 
" O, my Lord and Khan,^ 
What clime is this, and what golden time ?" 
When he — "The clime 
Is a clime to praise. 
The clime is Erin's, the green and bland ; 
And it is the time. 
These be the days. 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Handt" 

Then saw I thrones, 
And circling fires^ 
And a Dome rose near me, as by a spell, 
Wlience flowed the tones 
Of silver lyres, 
And many voices in wreathed swell; 
And their thrilling chime 
Fell on mine ears 
As the heavenly hymn of an angel-band — 
" It is now the time. 
These be the years. 
Of Cahal Mor of tlie Wine-red Hand!" 

1 Ceann, the Gtplic title for a chief. 



MANGAN. 435 

T sought the hall, 

And, behold ! . . .a change 
From light to darkness, from joy to woe ! 
King, nobles, all. 

Looked aghast and strange ; 
The minstrel-group sate in dumbest show ! 
Had some great crime 

Wrought this dread amaze. 
This terror ? None seemed to understand ! 
'Twas then the time. 
We were in the days. 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand. 

I again walked forth ; 
But lo ! the sky 
Showed fleckt with blood, and an alien sun 
Glared from the north. 
And there stood on high, 
Amid his shorn beams, a skeleton! 
It was by the stream 
Of the castled Maine, 
One Autumn eve, in the Teuton's land, 
That I dreamed this dream 
Of tlie time and reign 
Of Cahal Mor of the Wine-red Hand! 



436 MISCELLANEOUS. 



giu InHtatioiT. 

Friends to Freedom ! is't not time 

That your course were shaped at length? 
Wherefore stand ye loitering here ? 
Seek some healthier, holier olirae, 

Where your souls may grow in strength, 
And whence Love hath exiled Fear ! 

Europe, — Southron, Saxon, Celt, — 
Sits alone, in tattered robe. 

In our days she burns with none 
Of the lightning-life she felt, 
When Rome shook the troubled globe, 
Twenty centuries agone. 

Deutschland sleeps : her star liath waned. 
France, the Thundress whilome, now 
Singeth small, with bated breath. 
Spain is bleeding, Poland chained; 
Italy can but groan and vow. 
England lieth sick to death/ 



And your genuine goal is won. 
Purely Freedom's breezes blow, 



1 " England leidet von einev todtlichen Krankheit, ohne Hoff nung wie ohne HeL 
lung." England labours under a deadly sickness without, hope and without reme- 
dy.— Niebdhr. 



MANGAN. 437 

Merrily Freedom's cliildren roam, 
By the doedal Amazon, 
And the glorious Ohio ! 

Thither take not gems and gold. 

Nought from Europe's robber-hoards 
Must profone the Western Zones. 
Thither take ye spirits bold, 

Thither take ye ploughs and swords, 
And your fathers' buried bones ! 

Come ! — if Liberty's true fires 
Burn within your bosoms, come ! 
If ye would that in your graves 
Your free sons should bless their sires, 
Make the Far Green West your home. 
Cross with me the Atlantic's waves ! 



t^Ije Marn'ntg toicc' 



" II me semble que nous sommes a la veille d'une grande bataille humaine. Lea 
forces sont la ; mais je n'y vois pas de g6ii6ral." — Balzac : Livre Mystique. 



Ye Faithful!— ye Noble! 

A day is at hand 
Of trial and trouble. 

And woe in the land ! 
O'er a once greenest path, 

Now blasted and sterile. 
Its dusk shadows loom — 

1 Written in the year 1847, when the British Famine was wasting Ireland, and 
when the Irish Confederation was formed. 

37* 



438 MISCELLANEOUS. 

It Cometh witli Wrath, 
With Conflict and Peril, 
With Judgment and Doom! 

False bands shall be broken, 
Dead systems shall crumble, 
And the Haughty shall hear 
Truths yet never spoken. 

Though smouldering like flame 
Through many a lost year 
In the hearts of the Humble ; 
For, Hope will expire 
As the Terror draws nigher. 

And, with it, the Shame 
Which so long overawed 

Men's minds by its might — 
And the Powers abroad 

Will be Panic and Blight, 
And phrenetic Sorrow — 

Black Pest all the night. 
And Death on the morrow ! 

Now, therefore, ye True, 
Gird your loins up anew ! 
By the good you have wrought ! 
By all you have thought, 
And suffered, and done ! 

By your souls ! I implore you, 
Be leal to your mission — 
Remembering that one 

Of tlie tiDO paths before you 
Slopes down to Perdition I 
To you have been given, 



MANGA.N. 439 

Not granaries and gold, 
But the Love that lives long, 

And waxes not cold ; 
And the Zeal that hath striven 

Against Error and Wrong, 
And in fragments hath riven 

The chains of the Strong ! 
Bide now, by your sternest 
Conceptions of earnest 
Endurance for others, 
Your weaker-souled brothers ! 
Your true faith and worth 

Will be History soon. 
And their stature stand forth 

In the unsparing Il^I^oon! 

You have dreamed of an era 
Of Knowledge, and Truth, 
And Peace — the true glory ! 
Was this a chimera? 
Not so ! — but the childhood and youth 
Of our days will grow hoary. 
Before such a marvel shall burst on their sight! 
On you its beams glow not — 
For you its flowers blow not ! 
You cannot rejoice in its light. 

But in darkness and suffering instead. 
You go down to the place of the Dead ! 
To tliis generation 
The sore tribulation, 
The stt)rmy commotion, 
And foam of the Popular Ocean, 

The struggle of class against class; 



440 MISCELLANOUS. 

The Dearth and the Sadness, 
The Sword and the War-vest; 

To tlie next^ the Repose and the Gladness, 
" The sea of clear glass," 
And the rich Golden Harvest! 

Know, then, yonr true lot, 
Ye Faithful, though few ! 
Understand your position. 
Remember your mission, 
And vacillate not. 

Whatsoever ensue ! 
Alter not ! Falter not ! 

Palter not now with your own living souls, 
When each moment that rolls 
May see Death, lay his hand 
On some new victim's brow ! 
Oh ! let not your vow 
Have been written in sand! 
Leave cold calculations 
Of Danger and Plague, 
To the slaves and the traitors 
Who cannot dissemble 

The dastard sensations 
That now make them tremble 

With phantasies vague ! — 
The men without ruth — 
The hypocrite haters 
Of Goodness and Truth, 
Who at heart curse the race 

Of the sun through the skies; 
And would look in God's face 
With a lie in their eyes ! 



MANGAN. 441 

To the last do your duty, 

Still mindful of this — 
That Virtue is Beauty, 
And Wisdom, and Bliss ; 
So, howe'ei-, as frail men, you have erred on 

Your way along Life's thronged road, 
Shall your consciences prove a sure guerdon 
And tower of defence, 
Until Destiny summon you hence 
To the Better Abode ! 



(On a Landscape, painted by M ■'-• * * "• « * . ) 

Glorious birth of Mind and Colour, 
Gazing on thy radiant face, 
The most lorn of Adam's race 

Might forget all dolour ! 

What divinest light is beaming 
Over mountain, mead, and grove ! 
That blue noontide sky above, 

Seems asleep and dreaming. 

Rich Italia's wild-birds warble 
In the foliage of those trees. 
I can trace thee, Veronese, 

In these rocks of marble ! 



442 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Yet no ! Mark I not where quiver 
The sun's rays on yonder stream? 
Only a Poussin could dream 

Such a sun and river! 

What bold imaging ! Stony valley, 
And fair bower of eglantine! 
Here I see the black ravine, 

There the lilied alley ! 

Tills is some rare clime so olden, 
Peopled, not by men, but fays ; 
Some lone land of genii days, 

Storyful and golden ! 

Oh, for magic power to wander 

One bright year through such a land ! 
Might I even one hour stand 

On the blest hills yonder ! 

But— what spy I ? . . .0, by noonlight ! 
'Tis the same! — the pillar-tower 
I have oft passed thrice an hour, 

Twilight, sunlight, moonlight! 

Shame to me, my own, my sire-land, 
Not to know thy soil and skies ! 
Shame, that through Maclise's eyes 



No ! no land doth rank above thee 
Or for loveliness or worth ! 
So shall I, from this day forth. 

Ever sing and love thee ! 



MANGAN. 443 



My path lay towards the Mourne agen, 

But I stopped to rest by the hill-side 
That glanced adown o'er the sunken glen, 

"Which the Saw- and ^Y(itev-m^lls hide, 
Which now, as then. 

The Saw- and Water-mills hide. 

And there, as I lay reclined on the hill. 
Like a man made by sudden qualm ill, 

I heard the water in the Water-mill, 
And I saw the saw in the Saw-mill! 

As I thus lay still, 
I saw tlie saw in the Saw-mill ! 

The saw, the breeze, and the humming bees, 

Lulled me into a dreamy reverie. 
Till the objects round me, hills, mills, trees. 

Seemed grown alive all and every. 
By slow degrees 

Took life as it were, all and every ! 

Anon the sound of the waters grew 

To a Mourne-ful ditty. 
And the song of the tree that the saw sawed through. 

Disturbed my s[)irit with pity. 
Began to subdue 

My spirit with tenderest pity ! 



444 MISCELLANEOUS. 

"Oh, wanderer! the hour that brings thee back 

Is of all meet hours the meetest. 
Thou now, in sooth, art on the Track, 

Art nigher to Home than thou weetest; 

Thou hast thought Time slack, 

But his flight has been of the fleetest ! 

"For thee it is that I dree such pain 
As, when wounded, even a plank will ; 

My bosom is pierced, is rent in twain. 
That thine may ever bide tranquil, 

May ever remain 
Henceforward untroubled and tranquil. 

" In a few days more, most Lonely One ! 

Shall I, as a narrow ark, veil 
Thine eyes from the glare of the world and sun 

'Mong the urns in yonder dark vale, 
In the cold and dun 

Kecesses of yonder dark vale ! 

"For this grieve not! Thou knowest what thanks 

The Weary-souled and Meek owe 
To Death !*' — I awoke, and heard four planks 

Fall down with a saddening echo. 
/ heard four planks 

Fall doiDn with a hollow echo. 



MANGAN. 445 



The last words of Red Hugh O'Donnell on his departure 
FROM Ireland for Spain. 

[" After this defeat at Cean-Salla (Kinsale), it was remarked that the Irish became 
a totally changed people, for they now exchanged their valour for timidity, their 
energy and vigour for indolence, and their hopes for bitter despondency." — AnnaJs 
of the Four Slasters, a. d. 1602.] 

Weep not the brave Dead ! 
Weep rather the Living — 

On them lies the curse 
Of a Doom unforgiving! 
Each dark hour that rolls, 

Shall the memories they nurse, 
Like molten hot lead, 
Burn into their souls 

A remorse long and sore ! 

They have helped to enthral a 
Great land evermore, 
They who fled from Cean-Salla! 

Alas, for thee, slayer 

Of the kings of the Norsemen ! 

Thou land of sharp swords, 
And strong kerns and swift horsemen ! 
Land ringing with song ! 

Land, whose abbots and lords, 
Whose Heroic and Fair, 

Through centuries long, 
Made each palace of thine 

A new western Walhalla — 



446 MISCELLANEOUS. 

Thus to die without sigu 
On the field of Oean-Salla ; 

My ship cleaves the wave — 
I depart for Iberia — 

But, oh ! with what grief, 
With how heavy and dreary a 

Sensation of ill ! 
I could welcome a grave : 

My career has been brief, 
But I bow to God's will ! 
Not if now all forlorn. 

In my green years, I fall, a 
Lone exile, I mourn — • 

But I mourn for Oean-Salla ! 



Irislj iatronal fgmtt. 

O Ireland ! Ancient Ireland ! 
Ancient ! yet for ever young ! 
Thou our mother, home and sireland — 
Thou at length hast found a tongue — 
Proudly thou, at length, 
Resistest in triumphant strength. 
Thy flag of freedom floats unfurled ; 
And as that mighty God existetli, 
AVho giveth victory when and where He listeth, 
Thou yet shalt wake and shake the nations of the world. 



MANGAN. 44*7 

For this (lull world still slumbers, 
Weetless of its wants or loves, 
Though, like Galileo, numbers 

Cry aloud, "It moves! it moves !" 
In a midnight dream, 
Drifts it down Time's wreckful stream — 
x\ll march, but few descry the goal. 
O Ireland ! be it thy high duty 
To teach the world the might of Moral Beauty, 
And stamp God's image truly on the struggling soul. 

Strong in thy self-reliance, 

Not in idle threat or boast. 
Hast thou hurled thy fierce defiance 
At the haughty Saxon host — 
Thou hast claimed, in sight 
Of high Heaven, thy long-lost right. 
Upon thy hills — along thy plains — 
In the green bosom of thy valleys. 
The new-born soul of holy freedom rallies, 
And calls on thee to trample down in dust thy chains ! 

Deep, saith the Eastern story, 

Burns in Iran's mines a gem, 
For its dazzling hues and glory 
Worth a Sultan's diadem. 
But from human eyes 
Hidden there it ever lies! 
The aye-travailing Gnomes alone, 

Who toil to form the mountain's treasure, 
May gaze and gloat with pleasure without measure 
Upon the lustrous beauty of that wonder-stone. 



448 MISCELLANEOUS. 

So is it with a nation 

Which would win for its rich dower 
That bright pearl, Self-Liberation — 
It must labour hour by hour. 
Strangers, who travail 
To lay bare the gem, shall fail ; 
Within itself, must grow, must glow — 
Within the depths of its own bosom 
Must flower in living might, must broadly blossom, 
The hopes that shall be born ere Freedom's Tree can 
blow. 

Go on, then, all-rejoiceful! 

March on thy career unbowed! 
Ireland! let thy noble, voiceful 
Spirit cry to God aloud ! 

Man will bid thee speed — 
God will aid thee in thy need — 
The Time, the Hour, the Power are near — 
Be sure thou soon shalt form the vanguard 
Of that illustrious band, whom Heaven and Man guard : 
And these words come from one whom some have called a 
Seer. 



Jroheit-ljearttb ITags. 



Weep for one blank, one desert epoch in 
The history of the heart; it is the time 

When all which dazzled us no more can win; 
When all that beamed of starlike and sublime 



MANGAN. 449 

Wanes, and we stand lone mourners o'er the burial 
Of perished pleasure, and a pall funereal, 
Stretching afar across the hueless heaven, 
Curtains the kingly glory of the sun, 
And robes the melancholy earth in one 
Wide gloom; when friends for whom we could have 

striven 
With pain, and peril, and the sword, and given 
Myriads of lives, had such been merged in ours, 
Eequite us with falsehearted ness and wrong ; 
When sorrows haunt our path like evil powers. 
Sweeping and countless as the legion throng. 

Then, when the upbroken dreams of boyhood's span, 

And when the inanity of all things human, 
And when the dark ingratitude of man. 

And when the hollower perfidy of woman. 
Come down like night upon the feelings, turning 

This rich, bright world, so redolent of bloom, 
Into a lazar-house of tears and mourning — 

Into the semblance of a living tomb ! 

When, yielding to the might she cannot master, 
The soul forsakes her palace halls of youth, 
And (touched by the Ithuriel wand of truth, 

Which oft in one brief hour works wonders vaster 
Than those of Egypt's old magician host). 
Sees at a single glance that all is lost ! 

And brooding in her cold and desolate lair 

Over the phantom-wrecks of things that were, 
And asking destiny if nought remain ? 
Is answered — bitterness and lifelong pain, 

Remembrance, and reflection, and despair, 
38* 



450 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And torturing thoughts that will not be forbidden, 
And agonies that cannot all be hidden ! 

Oh ! in an hour like this, when thousands fix, 
In headlong desperation, on self-slaughter. 

Sit down, you droning, groaning bore ! and mix 
A glorious beaker of red rum-and- water! 

And finally give care his flooring blow. 
By one large roar of laughter, or guffaw, 
As in the Freischutz chorus, "Haw! haw! haw!" 

V affaire estfaite — you've bammed and bothered woe! 



^\t ^nt pgsferjr. 



BALLAD. 

'Tis idle ! we exhaust and squander 
The glittei-ing mine of thought in vain; 

All-baffled reason cannot wander. 
Beyond her chain. 

The flood of life runs dark — dark clouds 
Make lampless night around its shore: 

The dead, where are they? In their shrouds- 
Man knows no more. 

Evoke the ancient and the past, 

Will one illumining star arise? 
Or must the film, from first to last, 

0''erspread thine eyes ? 



MANGAN. 451 

When life, love, glory, beauty, wither, 
Will wisdom's page, or science' chart, 

Map out for thee the region whither 
Their shades depart ? 

Supposest thou the wondrous powers, 

To high imagination given, 
Pale types of what shall yet be ours, 

When earth is heaven ? 
When this decaying shell is cold. 

Oh ! sayest thou the soul shall climb 
That magic mount she trod of old, 

Ere childhood's time ? 

And shall the sacred pulse that thrilled, 

Thrill once again to glory's name? 
And shall the conquering love that filled 

All earth with flame, 
Eeborn, revived, renewed, immortal, 

Resume his reign in prouder might, 
A sun beyond the ebon portal. 

Of death and night ? 

No more, no more — with aching brow, 

And restless heart, and burning brain. 
We ask the When, the Where, the How, 

And ask in vain. 
And all i)hilosophy, all faith, 

All earthly — all celestial lore. 
Have but one voice, which only saith — 

Endure — adore ! 



452 MISCELLANEOUS. 



^\^t ^amelcss §ixt. 



Roll forth, my song, like the rushing river, 

That sweeps along to the mighty sea ; 
God will inspire me while I deliver. 
My soul of thee ! 

Tell thou the world, when my bones lie whitening 

Amid the last homes of youth and eld. 
That there was once one whose veins ran lightning 
Ko eye beheld. 

Tell how his boyhood was one drear night-hour, 

How shone for him^ through his griefs and gloom, 
No star of all heaven sends to light our 
Path to the tomb. 

Roll on, my song, and to after ages 

Tell how, disdaining all earth can give, 
He would have taught men, from wisdom's pages, 
The way to live. 

And tell how trampled, derided, hated. 

And worn by weakness, disease, and wrong, 
He fled for shelter to God, who mated 
His soul with song — 

With song which alway, sublime or vapid, 
Flowed like a rill in the morning-beam, 



MAN G AN. 453 

Perchance not deep, but intense and rapid — 
A mountain stream. 

Tell how this Nameless, condemned for years long 

To herd with demons from hell beneath, 
Saw things that made him, with groans and tears, long 
For even death. 

Go on to tell how, with genius wasted, 

Betrayed in friendship, befooled in love, 
With spirit shipwrecked, and young hopes blasted. 
He still, still strove. 

Till, spent with toil, dreeing death for others. 

And some whose hands should have wrought for 
Mm ; 
(If children live not for sires and mothers), 
His mind grew dim. 

And he fell far through that pit abysmal, 

The gulf and grave of Magiun and Burns, 
And pawned his soul for the devil's dismal 
Stock of returns. 

But yet redeemed it in days of darkness, 

And shapes and signs of the final wrath, 
When death, in hideous and ghastly starkness, 
Stood on his path. 

And tell how now, amid wreck and sorrow. 

And want, and sickness, and houseless nights, 
He bides in calmness the silent morrow, 
That no ray lights. 



464 MISCELLANEOUS. 

And lives be still, then? Yes! Old and hoary 

At thirty-nine, from despair and woe, 
He lives, enduring what future story 
Will never know. 

Him grant a grave to, ye pitying noble, 

Deep in your bosoms ! There let him dwell ! 
He, too, had tears for all souls in trouble. 
Here and in hell. 



SCIjc Jgiitg (Entl)usiasi. 



Speak no more of life. 
What can life bestow, 
In this amphitheatre of strife. 

All times dark with tragedy and woe? 
Knowest thou not how care and pain 
Build their lampless dwelling in the brain. 
Ever, as the stern intrusion 

Of our teachers, time and truth. 
Turn to gloom the bright illusion, 

Kainbowed on the soul of youth ? 
Could I live to find that this is so ? 
Oh ! no ! no ! 

As the stream of time 
Sluggishly doth flow. 
Look how all of beaming and sublime, 
Sinks into the black abysm below. 



455 



Yea, the loftiest intellect, 

Earliest on the strand of life is wrecked. 

Nought of lovely, nothing glorious, 

Lives to triumph o'er decay; 
Desolation reigns victorious — 

Mind is dungeon walled by clay : 
Could I bear to feel mine own laid low ? 
Oh ! no ! no ! 

Restless o'er the earth, 
Thronging millions go : 
But behold how genius, love, and worth, 
Move like lonely phantoms to and fro. 
Suns are quenched, and kingdoms fall, 
But the doom of these outdarkens all ! 
Die they then ? Yes, love's devotion, 

Stricken, withers in its bloom ; 
Fond affections, deep as ocean. 

In their cradle find their tomb : 
Shall I linger, then, to count each throe? 
Oh ! no ! no ! 

Prison-bursting death ! 
Welcome be thy blow ! 
Thine is but the forfeit of my breath, 

Not the spirit! nor the spirit's glow. 
Spheres of beauty — hallowed spheres, 

Undefaced by time, undimmed by tears, 
Henceforth hail ! oh, who would grovel, 

In a world, impure as this? 
Who would weep, in cell or hovel, 

When a palace might be his ? 
Wouldst thou have me the bright lot forego? 
Oh! no! no! 



456 MISCELLANEOUS. 



^0 loscjplj ^rjeimit. 



Friend and brother, and yet more than brother, 

Thou endowed witli all of Shelley's soul ! 
Thou whose heart so burneth for thy mother,^ 
That, like his^ it may defy all other 
Flames, while time shall roll ! 

Thou of language bland, and manner meekest, 

Gentle bearing, yet unswerving will — 
Gladly, gladly, list I when thou speakest. 
Honoured highly is the man thou seekest 
To redeem from ill ! 

Truly showest thou me the one thing needful ! 

Thou art not, nor is the world yet blind. 
Truly have I been long years unheedful 
Of the thorns and tares, that choked the weedful 
Garden of my mind ! 

Thorns and tares, which rose in rank profusion, 

Round my scanty fruitage and my flowers, 
Till I almost deemed it self-delusion. 
Any attempt or glance at their extrusion 
From their midnight bowers. 

Dream and waking life have now been blended 
Longtime in the caverns of my soul — 

1 Earth. 



457 



Oft Iq daylight have my steps descended 
Down to that dusk reahn where all is ended, 
Save remeadless dole ! 

Oft, with tears, I have groaned to God for pity — 

Oft gone wandering till my way grew dim — 
Oft sung unto Him a prayerful ditty — 
Oft, all lonely in this throngful city 
Raised my soul to Him ! 

And from path to path His mercy tracked me — 

From a many a peril snatched He me, 
"When false friends pursued, betrayed, attacked me, 
When gloom overdarked, and sickness racked me, 
He was by to save and free ! 

Friend ! thou warnest me in truly noble 

Thoughts and phrases ! I will heed thee ivell — 
Well will I obey thy mystic double 
Counsel, through all scenes of woe and trouble, 
As a magic spell ! 

Yes ! to live a bard, in thought and feeling ! 

Yes ! to act my rhyme, by self-restraint, 
This is truth's, is reason's deep revealing. 
Unto me from thee, as God's to a kneeling 
And entranced saint ! 

Fare thee well ! we now know each the other. 
Each luis struck the other's inmost chords — 
Fare thee well, ray friend aud more than brother. 
And may scorn pursue me if I smother 
In my soul thy words! 
39 



458 MISCELLANEOUS. 



(il^bjenfg §olhn gears gigo. 

O, THE rain, the weary, dreary rain. 

How it plashes on the window-sill! 
Night, I guess too, must be on the wane, 

Strass and Gass^ around are grown so still. 
Here I sit, with coffee in my cup — 

Ah ! t'was rarely I beheld it flow 
In the tavern where I loved to sup 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Twenty years ago, alas! — but stay — 

On my life, 'tis half-past twelve o'clock! 
After all, the hours do slip away — 

Come, here goes to burn another block ! 
For the night, or morn, is wet and cold ; 

And my fire is dwindling rather low : — 
T had fire enough, when young and bold 

Twenty golden years ago. 

Dear ! I don't feel well at all, somehow : 

Few in Weimar dream how bad I am; 
Floods of tears grow common with me now, 

High-Dutch floods, that Reason cannot dam. 
Doctors think I'll neither live nor thrive 

If I mope at home so — I don't know — 
Am I living now f I was alive 

Twenty golden years ago. 

1 street and lane. 



MANGAN. 459 

Wifeless, friendless, flaggonless, alone, 

Not quite bookless, though, unless I chuse. 
Left with nought to do, except to groan, 

Not a soul to woo, except the muse — 
O ! this is hard for me to bear. 

Me, who whilome lived so much en haut^ 
Me, who broke all hearts like china-ware, 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Perhaps 'tis better p — time's defacing waves, 

Long have quenched the radiance of my brow — 
They who curse me nightly from their graves. 

Scarce could love me were they living now ; 
But my loneliness hath darker ills — 

Such dun duns as Conscience, Thought and Co., 
Awful Gorgons ! worse than tailors' bills 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Did I paint a fifth of what I feel, 

O, how plaintive you would ween I was ! 
But I won't, albeit I have a deal 

More to wail about than Kerner has ! 
Keruer's tears are wept for withered flowers. 

Mine for withered hopes, my scroll of woe 
Dates, alas ! from youth's deserted bowers, 

Twenty golden years ago ! 

Yet, may Deutschland's bardlings flourish long, 
Me, I tweak no beak among them ; — hawks 

Must not pounce on hawks : besides, in song 
I could once beat all of them by chalks. 

Tliough you find me as I near ray goal, 
Sentimentalizing like Rousseau, 



460 MISCELLANEOUS. 

O ! I had a grand Byronian soul 
Twenty golden years ago ! 

Tick-tick, tick-tick ! — not a sound save Time's, 

And the windgust as it drives tlie rain — 
Tortured torturer of reluctant rhymes. 

Go to bed, and rest thinje aching brain ! 
Sleep! — no more the dupe of hopes or schemes ; 

Soon thou sleepest where the thistles blow — 
Curious anticlimax to thy dreams 

Twenty golden years ago ! 



THE END. 






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